


And Now My Watch Begins

by toewsyourheart



Series: Game of Thrones AU [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Barebacking, Betrayal, Falling In Love, Fantasy, First Time, Game of Thrones AU, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23763448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: Stripped of his titles and banished to the Wall to serve in the Night's Watch, Jon Toews finds unexpected love and a way back to himself in the darkest of places.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Series: Game of Thrones AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711942
Comments: 34
Kudos: 104





	1. The Wall

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic a longggg time ago, and it will be the first installment of two in this Game of Thrones AU. I've never read ASOI&F, but it does draw from characters and some events that happen in the show. 
> 
> Thanks so so so much to everyone who's helped me with this and put their eyes on it beforehand and encouraged me to keep going! The second part is still a work in progress, but hoping this will spark me to crank it out!
> 
> And a SPECIAL thanks to heartstrings (ao3)/anotherashley (tumblr) for the AMAZING graphic she made for this fic and her endless support and encouragement. I'd never get anything posted without her. Go check it and her out on tumblr!
> 
> If you're familiar with GoT, please feel free to skip this, but for those who aren't, here's a little run-down/character identifier thingy: 
> 
> GoT is a medieval fantasy series set in Westeros, which is composed of Seven Kingdoms (most of which aren't relevant to this story, per se), and is centered around fight for control of the Iron Throne. 
> 
> HOUSE TOEWS [WINTERFELL] CAPITAL OF THE NORTH  
> SIGIL: WOLF  
> ——————————  
> Bryan [Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch]  
> Andree [Iron Born]  
> Jonathan [Lord of Winterfell, Warden in the North]  
> David 
> 
> HOUSE LANNISTER [CASTERLY ROCK, KING’S LANDING] SOUTH  
> SIGIL: LION  
> ——————————  
> Tywin [Hand of the King]  
> Jaime [Captain of the King’s Guard] Twin  
> Cersei [Married Robert Baratheon] Twin  
> Tyrion
> 
> HOUSE BARATHEON [STORM’S END, KING’S LANDING] CROWN SEAT OF THE SOUTH  
> SIGIL: STAG  
> ——————————  
> Robert + Stannis + Renly  
> Joffrey [King of the Seven Kingdoms]  
> Myrcella  
> Tommen
> 
> Mance [King Beyond the Wall, deserter of the Night’s Watch]  
> Tormund  
> Ygritte  
> Orell [Warg]  
> Craster [Bastard son of a Night’s Watchman Ranger and a Wildling woman, lives in Craster’s Keep Beyond the Wall. Assists in the travels of the Rangers]
> 
> NIGHT’S WATCH: Group of men who live along the Wall, mostly at Castle Black, and have devoted their lives to defending it. The shield that guards Westeros. 
> 
> WILDLINGS: People who inhabit the vast, frozen mountains and forests Beyond the Wall. Also called Free Folk. Wildings and Free Folk have fought each other for hundreds of years for reasons that no one probably remembers anymore.

_When I think of you, I think of spirit defined // And I think of all the love that we shared in a very dark time //_

_-DK_

* * *

**_King’s Landing. Crown Seat of Westeros, The Long Summer_ ** ****

* * *

It’s too hot in the South. 

Jon feels grimy, covered in a thick layer of dirt with the sticky sheen of sweat on his brow. A single drop trickles down the bridge of his nose and off the end, landing on the ground, in front of him. 

“Jonathan of House Toews, Lord of Winterfell and Warden in the North—”

He tests his restraints, the steel cuffs biting into the flesh of his wrists where they’re bound uncomfortably behind his back by chains. There’s no fault in them. Not that Jon has any idea what he would do if he escaped other than turn a delayed death into a much quicker one. He’s in an impossible position, surrounded by the Royal Guard and the Gold Cloaks, loyal to the boy King and bought by his House of Lannister Lions, Tywin, Cersei.

Death would be simpler. There’s no one to stop them now, with Robert out of the way. Jon wonders, too late, if it was more planning and murder than accident and tragedy that resulted in an early grave for their King. 

Robert was the Baratheon Jon and the North bent the knee to. Not this one. This boy with a pinched face, beady eyes, and a tendency to throw tantrums to match his adolescence. He’s Robert’s heir by birth and blood, but he’s soulless in a way Robert never fully seemed to be, evil in places his father only held indifference and recklessness. Robert could be crude and ruthless in battle, but Joffrey is rumored to be cruel everywhere.

Perhaps he gets it from his mother’s side. 

“You have been brought before the court and Royal Council to confess your crimes to me,” Joffrey sneers, his smug smile suggesting it pleases him to do it. “So confess.” 

_Your_ crimes, Jon thinks, uselessly. 

The stone floor is hard, unforgiving against his knees. It’s unimaginable how many have fallen here, pleading for mercy. Jon forces his eyes to the Iron Throne, fights the bile rising in his throat. Rows and rows of onlookers at his back grow restless, anxious for his words. They chatter amongst themselves like it's all a spectacle for gossip and not Jon’s life dangling in the balance.

But it’s the gossip they want. 

What else is court for? There must be an audience to spread the word, people who’ve heard his testimony to pass it along, Queen Mother Cersei said. The North must know what Jon did, otherwise it would never accept the fate of its beloved Lord. It might not still, but there would certainly never be peace without, at the very least, a public confession. 

Jon will never know peace again. 

He opens his mouth to speak, betrayed when words form and escape: “Your Grace, I’ve broken the King’s Law and aided in the capture and trade of women into slavery in Essos. I acted alone, against my honor and House, and I ask for your mercy.” 

It tastes a lie in his mouth, wrenching in his gut and making him nauseous. 

“I don’t want you to ask,” Joffrey says, an intense silence rippling through the room to follow. It’s disgusting how they all hang on his words, despite what they know him to be. Jon’s father once told him that the only thing more impactful than duty or love in leadership is fear. Jon never thought him to be right, but perhaps he was to some degree. 

Joffrey finishes, “I want you to beg.” 

Everything inside Jon revolts against it, words jammed in his throat and threatening to choke him. He finds his lips closed in a tight line, unwilling to part and add to Joffrey’s power-fueled charade even as the quiet around him grows thick, palpable. With every passing second, his inaction morphs into defiance. 

The creak of chairs. A cough. Unrest. 

“Well! I’m waiting!” Joffrey shrieks, a crack in his voice exposing his youth. The audience snickers, whispers fluttering around them, and Joffrey’s cheeks flush red. “As your King, I _command_ you—”

The King’s Hand Lord Tywin clears his throat, loud and pointed. Joffrey stutters at his grandfather’s interruption, and Tywin talks over him until he quiets, addressing Jon directly from his seat: 

“My grandson has a penchant for theatrics that those of us with places more pressing to be do not, and so it seems I will pass your sentence. As you’re well aware, slavers hang in Westeros, Lord Toews.”

Jon holds his breath through Tywin’s deliberate pause, panic sparking through him. What is spoken behind closed doors means nothing if not carried out in the open. Lannisters always settle their debts, but do they keep their word? To his ears, Tywin’s sound suspiciously threatening. 

“But out of respect for the pledge made between House Toews and the late King Robert, you will be allowed to live as long as your _successor_ holds the North loyal to the Crown.” 

The word is weighty, final. Successor. It’s hard to listen once it’s said. 

“You will surrender your titles, forfeit the North.”

Forfeit the North. Even harder now. 

“Travel to the Wall, and take the Black. Perhaps your stubbornness will better serve you in the Night’s Watch.” 

On some deep, dark level, Jon would rather hang. 

On another, he dreamed of joining the Watch when he was a boy. Being part of the shield that guards the realms of men, or so the oath goes. He would dedicate his life to protecting the Wall and Seven Kingdoms from all that lay beyond it, and his father would finally be proud of him. 

It’s much too late for that now. He just lost Winterfell, their ancestral home, to his little brother. 

Somehow he manages, “Thank you, Lord Tywin, Your Grace,” and bows his head, even as his insides scream at him to fight harder, resist harder, to do _something_.

But what? His fate was decided over a month ago, long before he entered the throne room. It was sealed the moment he left the walls of Winterfell and then again when he rode through the gates of King’s Landing, against all advice he shouldn’t. 

He’s dragged from the floor by ungentle hands and taken back to the dungeon, where he’ll await a long, terrible journey from which he’ll presumably never return.

The only silver lining: He’ll never see this place and the monsters it holds again.

+

**_Castle Black, on the Wall_ **

* * *

He’s thin _._

That’s the first coherent thought in Jon’s head when he sees him, dressed in torn rags not proper for the cold, but pale like a Northerner who should know better. Winter is worse in the North when it comes, and it’s always Winter on the Wall, as far north as the North goes without crossing into Wildling territory. 

Jon wonders how he withstood the last Long Winter, especially dressed like that, and how he’ll make it here without putting a little meat on his bones. It’s freezing every fucking night. 

He stands across the courtyard, among the afternoon’s arrivals meant, as he is, to join the brotherhood. Jon watches him, curious as to why he’s so curious about one man among many in a similar condition, especially when he distinctly decided on his own trip North not to care about any singular thing ever again. As it is, Jon watches him anyway, trying to guess what he’s in for. Currently, the Night’s Watch is notoriously more of a joke with plummeting standards than a shield—a place for criminals and misfits, people with no money or means to refuse, men recruited from prison cells all across Westeros. 

Men like Jon. 

With nothing more to go on than a gut feeling, Jon decides he doesn’t look much like a criminal. He’s folded in on himself, more exhausted and freezing than anything, it seems. Though a person can be a lot of things at once, of course. He shivers hard, the sensation wracking through his body, and Jon’s better acclimated, barely even cold himself, but he feels it as if he had been, hair standing on his arms. 

It’s an easy decision: Fix it. 

That’s what got him here in the first place. He went to King’s Landing, to tell what he knew. 

To try and make it right. 

Jon ignores everything that stirs with those thoughts—his anger, the lingering sting of betrayal, a deep sense of loss that still hasn’t completely sunk in—and pushes away from his watchpost to head for the Commander’s quarters. 

+

“Lord Commander,” Jon greets him, very carefully, “My brothers who arrived today—”

“Brothers? You’ve not yet been here a week yourself, let alone taken any oath. They’re not your brothers.” 

Not carefully enough, then.

“Forgive me, I—” Jon starts, then hardens himself. He has no reason to feel shame for this or anything else that’s passed between them. He did what he was born to do, and he did it with honor until the very end. “They’re not my brothers yet, but they will be soon.”

“What of them?” the Commander asks. 

“Some aren’t dressed for the Wall. Let me take them to the stores to pick out coats and proper boots.”

Jon holds his stare, refusing to look away. The Lord Commander will think him weak if he does, defiant if he doesn’t. When Jon loses either way, it’s better to be the latter. Lord Tywin’s suggestion that Jon’s stubbornness would serve him well here is a testament to how little he actually knows the Lord Commander. There’s no way to win with him. 

“Always doing the right thing, aren’t you?” the Commander says, and Jon thinks if he didn’t sound so bitter, it could almost be taken as a compliment rather than backhanded, then— “As if we wouldn’t clothe them. You think so little of me?” 

“They’ve been standing in the courtyard, shivering in the cold for nearly an hour since they arrived!” Jon notes. “Was the plan to have their toes fall off first?”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” the Lord Commander says, and Jon lets it roll off his back, because he knows he asked for it. “You don’t belong here.”

Jon thinks to keep quiet this time, because no answer would please him, anyway, but it’s not in his nature. 

“I know that much better than you.” 

The look on the Commander’s face is frustratingly unreadable. Finally, “Do as you wish with the newcomers. You’ll train together until you take the Black, and it won’t be nearly long to make any of you worth two shits.” 

Jon bites his tongue and turns to leave, takes a deep breath, but doesn’t look back.

“Yes, Father,” he says, and slams the door behind him. 

+

He’s pretty _._

That’s the first thing Jon thinks the next time he sees him. It shouldn’t be, but it’s an awareness that lurks at the edge of his mind just the same. Jon had returned to the courtyard to find him gone, then discovered him again in the dining hall, eating alone. He’s hovered protectively over his food like it’s his first time having a hot meal in a while, or any meal for that matter. He shovels a bite into his mouth almost too big to fit, and Jon can’t be blamed if his eyes linger there as he manages to chew it all up and swallow. He runs his tongue over his lips to catch any crumbs, and that thought creeping around in Jon’s head becomes obtrusive. 

His tastes have never been traditional. Not in Westeros. Especially not among noblemen. 

Jon remembers, then, that he isn’t one anymore. Not here or anywhere else. So he picks up his own plate and goes to him, sitting down across the cracked wooden table. 

He’s met with a hard, crystal blue stare. There’s a stray curl across his forehead, his mouth even more enticing at this distance. 

“What is it? You’ve been staring forever, feels like.”

Jon’s cheeks flush at being caught. He thought he was subtle enough. 

“I’m Jon,” he offers, simply leaving it at that. Most people already know who he is, the banished Lord of Winterfell. Slaver. 

“Jon?”

He says it expectantly, and in a split second Jon realizes that perhaps he doesn’t have any idea. It shocks him silent, then he makes a quick, stupid decision.

“Jon Pyke.” 

Lies. 

“You’re a bastard?” He sounds as taken aback as Jon, head cocked suspiciously to one side. He narrows his eyes. “You don’t even look a little bit like a bastard.” 

“And what do bastards look like?” Jon asks, unable to hide his amusement. “Since you’re the expert.” 

“Not like you,” is all he says. 

“My mother’s Iron Born—”

“I know what being Pyke means, thanks very much.” 

“That’s not—that’s not how I—” Jon starts, then blows out a breath in a rush. This isn’t the exchange he expected when he came over. “I only meant to say that I know my mother. My father…wasn’t around for long.” 

It’s a half truth, at best. His father has been the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch for far longer than he was ever a father to Jon, eight years to seventeen. His conscience knocks at the inside of his chest, dull and nagging. Jon’s never been great at lying, so instead of digging himself any deeper, he says nothing else.

The silence stretches, until— “Well, that sounds like a bastard.” 

Jon huffs a laugh, holding his gaze in hopes he’ll reveal something about himself now. Instead, he shoves another bite of food into his mouth. 

Jon’s pleased when he mumbles around it, “I’m Patrick, not a bastard, of house no pot to piss in whatsoever.” 

“I’ve never heard of that one,” Jon says, fighting a smile too wide for the subject. It’s unkind to make light of another’s misfortune, even if they’re making light of it themselves. His mother taught him better than that. She taught him better than to lie, too. Taught him better than to get himself banished to the fucking Wall. 

“No? Very prominent family in the South. Everyone knows us,” Patrick carries on. “This food is very good, Jon Pyke.”

It confirms Jon’s earlier suspicion. The food is horrible, and anyone who enjoys it hasn’t had anything worth eating in a while. The thought of Patrick going hungry turns his stomach, but he finds himself grinning at him, anyway. 

“When you’re finished, let me take you to get some better clothes. It’ll only get colder. We start training tomorrow.”

“I don’t like to fight in anything heavy,” Patrick says. 

He doesn’t look like the type who likes to fight in anything at all. Up close, he’s not as frail as Jon had thought him to be from across the courtyard, but he’s too lean for his frame. If he’s a fighter, Jon would like to see it. He nods just the same. “Something to keep you warm at night, then.” 

“I don’t—” Patrick stops, his metal fork slipping from his fingers and dropping with a startling clang. In that moment, he looks younger than he probably is, vulnerable and oddly frustrated. “I don’t need to be looked after.” 

“We all need to be looked after,” Jon argues. “Would you rather freeze?”

Patrick doesn’t say anything, a strange mix of confusion and resistance on his face. Finally, he softens, if only slightly, then nods his head and goes back to eating his supper. 

Jon does the same, satisfied enough, and after a bit, he passes Patrick the roll from his plate. He watches nervously as Patrick stares at it, gnawing his lower lip in thought.

“I can’t eat it. Something in there upsets my stomach,” Jon offers with a casual shrug, hoping reason will prevail over the aversion Patrick’s shown to accepting help. “I figured it out when I was younger.” 

It’s the first whole truth Jon’s told since he sat down. It feels good to share something real, even if the subject reminds him of vomiting and stomach pains after nearly every meal until he got it under control. He couldn’t be sickly and rule Winterfell, his father said. It had to be dealt with. 

“Can’t imagine not being able to eat bread,” Patrick admits, eyes widening in disbelief. “We lived near a baker growing up, so it was the easiest thing to steal when we were hungry.” 

Jon schools his expression, wishing in that moment that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. The thought of Patrick having only bread to eat while Jon had the luxury of cutting it from his diet entirely… It’s painful, humbling, embarrassing somehow. 

“Patrick, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Patrick insists, the corner of his mouth curving into a small smile Jon wasn’t expecting to see. “Feel sorry for yourself. Bread’s good. You’re missing out.”

“Better not let that go to waste, then,” Jon tells him. 

Patrick stares at him, lost in thought. Then, without another word, he picks up the roll, dips it into his gravy, and shoves half of it right into his mouth. 

+

The next morning they have their breakfast at sunrise, then make their way to the West Courtyard to meet the Master at Arms, Ser Marsh. He’s a middle-aged, burly fellow with a round belly threatening to burst from his breastplate and a mean scowl. It’s immediately clear that his bark is worse than his bite despite it.

All around them, veteran men of the Night’s Watch train and move from tower to tower. They forge weapons from iron and steel, tend the livestock, and make repairs to their storages, equipment, and the Wall itself. The sounds of clanging metal, thumping wood, shouting, and squealing of livestock are a constant backdrop to anything going on elsewhere. The bulk of their work is upkeep, surviving harsh conditions and making sure everyone gets fed, but beneath it all, a constant preparation for a great war that may never come and a thousand smaller battles with Wildlings along the way. For centuries, they’ve hunted each other—Watchmen and Wildling. Jon’s not sure anyone remembers why at this point. Something to pass the time, to chip away at the monotony of running around in circles in the middle of freezing cold nowhere. 

Here, Jon and the other newcomers will learn how they’ll fit into the community of the Watch. After lengthy evaluation, they’ll each be assigned to one of three orders: the Rangers, the most respected, meant to scout the lands beyond the Wall and thwart Wildling invasions before they make it too close; Builders, the repairmen, the enforcers of the infrastructure that protects them; or Stewards, the servants and cooks, the lowest of orders in the eyes of most. 

Under different circumstances, Jon would be nervous, hoping to be named a Ranger and dreading the possibility of the others. Under these particular circumstances, though, there’s no doubt in his mind where he’ll end up: Not where he deserves to be, but exactly where the Lord Commander wants him. He’ll consider himself lucky if he’s kept at Castle Black and not sent to the Shadow Tower or Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. It would put over a hundred miles between Jon and the Commander, the former at the west end of the Wall and the latter touching the Bay of Seals to the east. The two aren’t quite as far as Winterfell was, but far enough. 

Not that it matters. At any place, Jon is bound until death. It couldn’t be much worse from one castle to the next.

Patrick stands beside him in their small circle of wayward men, wearing the same tattered clothes he arrived in, plus a new pair of sturdy stockings, shoes with intact soles and string, and a light coat he picked out with Jon the day before. They went their separate ways shortly after that little adventure, and Jon didn’t see him again until night, when Patrick came to claim a vacant bed in the sleeping quarters of the West South Tower. 

Jon’s sleeping quarters. 

The thought of Patrick sleeping just across the room kept him up for longer than it should’ve. Jon wondered, often, if he was warm enough.

The Master’s bellowing snaps him to attention. 

“Who’s first?!”

Sparring. 

A nervous quiet breaks out over the group, men glancing sideways at one another, shuffling foot-to-foot where they stand. Jon stretches his neck, then takes a deep breath and holds his head high as he steps forward into the center. He doesn’t know where the Lord Commander is perched, but he’s surely watching. Jon won’t offer up another excuse for criticism.

“Ah, a volunteer!” Master Marsh exclaims, “But it takes two. Who else?…Or have I been brought a bunch of coward ninnies?” 

“I’ll have a go at him,” comes a voice at Jon’s back. 

Patrick.

Of course. 

Jon huffs a laugh, turning to him. Patrick’s over a head shorter with a significant weight disadvantage. A voice rings in his head, a piece of advice from his father he’s always held close: Never underestimate an opponent. 

Still, he asks, “You’re sure?”

Patrick chuckles with a defiant edge like he’s experienced this sort of doubt before. He stands in front of Jon without a trace of hesitation in his body. Something in his devilish smile and the casual arrogance of his posture tells Jon that he wouldn’t have stepped forward if he didn’t have total confidence in his abilities with a sword, and Jon’s just insulted them. 

His weapon looks light in his grasp, and Jon’s shocked when Patrick brings both hands behind his back, calmly waiting. 

It’s not a proper defensive position. 

Jon doesn’t want to hurt him. 

Patrick looks as if the thought of being hurt never once crossed his mind.

“Your move, Jon.” 

He advances on him with something predictable, bringing his own wooden sword down with enough force to dislocate a shoulder should it connect, though he doesn’t expect it will. 

Patrick dances out of the way, not taking his hands from behind his back. Jon resets to engage him again, only for Patrick to artfully dodge his next two combinations. The way he moves is fluid as water, quick as a cat. One moment he’s there for striking, the next he isn’t. If Jon weren’t growing so frustrated, he would find it impressive. Time to stop fooling around. 

“Are you going to fight me?” Jon asks. 

“Are you going to make me?” Patrick answers, and before he’s wiped the smirk off his face, Jon charges him, barreling forward so suddenly he’s sure Patrick won’t be able to make the adjustment. 

He’s right. 

Patrick absorbs the hit, stumbles back, and finally makes use of his weapon. Then, they’re sparring as a proper spar should be done, and the rest of the world fades away. They’re not avoiding blows, but taking and returning them, ceding ground, then claiming it back. It’s simple to get lost in the back and forth of it, in the rhythm of swords. 

Patrick is skilled, far better than Jon ever imagined. He suspected if Patrick had a fighting style at all, it would be based in strategy and finesse, and Jon’s seen it here on perfect display. But every man is fallible. Jon hasn’t properly trained in a while, but he’s been fighting from the moment he could hold a stick in his hands. He brings down his weapon and Patrick meets his strike, attempts to shove him off, then seems to trip forward. In fairness, Jon waits for him to right himself to finish it, then suddenly, unexpectedly, he feels a hard blow to his calf, his legs being swept out from under him. 

The world turns upside down, and Jon finds himself breathless with his back in the dirt, staring up at a gray, cloudy sky. There’s a sparring sword at this throat and an incredibly smug Patrick standing over him.

“Perhaps someone should’ve asked _you_ about being sure or not.” 

Jon rolls his eyes, pushes himself up. “That was fucking _cheap_.” 

“What will you do about it?” Patrick challenges. 

Jon won’t hold back this time.

“Again.” 

+

The next few weeks carry on into months much the same, and Jon can’t seem to keep away from him. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell if the attraction is mutual with Patrick’s guard nearly as high as the Wall itself, but when he’s allowed a peek over it, Jon feels a closeness with him unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. Born of fate or circumstance or both, he doesn’t know, and he’s not willing to question it beyond knowing it’s the most precious thing he has now, in whatever form he can have it.

It’s not always lustful, the way Jon thinks about him. Often he catches himself staring in awe of him, but mostly he feels as though there’s an invisible string that connects them. If either strays too far, the other is drawn closer by force of the stars and seas, by the universe itself. 

They eat all their meals together. They spar endlessly. They discuss fighting styles, picking up new skills through repetition and hard work. They sleep across the room from each other.

Jon never dreamed of companionship on the Wall. The entire journey he dreaded the thought of having no one, fearful he’d not be well received because of where he came from. Jon will admit he’s felt as much resentment as camaraderie, that great big unspoken thing in the room separating him from everyone else. He hears the whispers. If Patrick hears them, too, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask questions or poke at Jon’s flimsy lie about who he is— 

The Commander’s first son. The pampered Lord of Winterfell who grew up in a castle instead of dirt poor like most men of the Night’s Watch. The Warden in the North, accused of smuggling women into slavery. 

Jon assumed his reputation would cause trouble for him, but he never imagined the extent to which it would affect Patrick, too. Jon barely believes his own eyes the day he walks into their sleeping quarters to find three of their brothers, huddled around him in obvious conflict. 

Or the day he rounds the corner into the armory to find a group of five, one of them shoving Patrick’s shoulder and stepping too far into his space. He recognizes that one, Rast, a tall, nasty man with a deep scar over his eye. He came from King’s Landing the same time as Jon. Janos, too, the irritating shadow of Rast who probably crawled out of a shithole in Flea Bottom. He’s rail thin, far more useless. The others are nameless to him, but he won’t forget their faces. 

Before Jon fully registers what he’s doing, his feet have carried him into the crowd of them. He closes his hand on Rast’s collar, tugging him back to put distance between him and Patrick. 

“I think that’s enough,” Jon warns, keeping his tone light but insistent. “Whatever duties need to be done here, we’ll handle them.” 

“Fuck you,” Rast says, rolling his shoulders to knock Jon’s hand away. Then, with a hateful, grimy smile, making a disgusting display of reaching for his belt, “Oh, but you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’ve both come over here asking for it.”

As if Jon wouldn’t rather impale himself on a sword than Rast’s cock. 

The group sniggers at Rast’s back, and somehow, Jon keeps his expression even as the tension grows around them. It’s the reaction Rast wants, but he won’t get it. Not from Jon, anyway. Out the corner of his eye, Jon sees Patrick take an involuntary step forward, both hands fisted at his sides. He matches Patrick’s step to keep between them. 

“What I’m asking,” Jon says, voice harder now, “is for you to take your lap dogs and get out of here before your mouth takes you further than you want to go.” 

Rast looks confused for a moment about where it is he might be going, so Jon whispers, “I hear they’re short on stewards at the Shadow Tower.” 

Not that the Commander would ever do him the favor of sending Rast there if Jon asked, but Rast doesn’t know it. That much is clear as he grits his teeth in frustration, face turning red with defeat, “You’re not as smart as you think. You won’t have an out forever.” 

“Neither will you,” Jon hears. Patrick sounds angry—angrier than Jon’s ever heard him. Still, Rast goes instead of rising to the threat, however reluctantly, and takes his minions with him. 

When they’re alone, Patrick turns to him, his brow furrowed. “You don’t always have to do that, you know?” 

“Do what?” Jon asks innocently, against the lingering angst in the room. 

“Protect me from that piece of human filth,” Patrick explains, carrying that stubbornness from the day they first spoke, when Jon passed him the first extra dinner roll of many since. 

“I wasn’t protecting you,” Jon tells him. 

Except he was. He knows through experience that Patrick can take care of himself, but a man can only do so much when he’s outnumbered five to one. Jon would gladly place himself between Patrick and as many of their disgruntled brothers as necessary. It’s Jon’s fault they come for him. He’s the only one they’re brave enough to bother. They take out on Patrick what they can’t take out on him. 

Since he can’t say any of that, Jon explains, “I was helping you and protecting them. I’ve fought you plenty. We need these men intact to protect Westeros.” 

Patrick blows out a breath that sounds more like a laugh than anything else. “Very clever,” he says, and something softens in his eyes, relaxes in the tense, burdened set of his shoulders. 

A wall lowers. 

Jon has yet to see that hardness return. 

At the end of the day, it’s nice to have a friend. Someone to stand beside. Someone to talk to. Rarely about their lives before, but about their lives now.

Jon shouldn’t be here at all. 

But it’s nice. 

+

Jon drops himself to the ground, leaning back onto a mound of hay beside Patrick, exhausted. His limbs are heavy in that satisfying way that means he’s pushed himself as he should’ve in his training. They went at it long enough. 

After their initial session with Master Marsh in the morning, they cleaned the armory as commanded. Boring, tedious work that made Jon’s head throb. Patrick kept laughing at him for some reason, which only made it worse. 

When Jon could finally think straight and the courtyard was clear, they went back to go again. And again. And again. And again. 

In the end, Jon thought he won as much as he yielded, but despite his competitive nature, the score was the last thing on his mind. As always, Jon was enamored by Patrick’s effortlessly calculated style, his fluidity of movement and elusiveness. There’s something so instinctual and creative about it, yet studied, honed over time. His dance is graceful, lethal, and full of surprises. Where he perceived weakness in Patrick before, Jon’s seen it reborn in strength. His size gives him speed and quickness, which breeds unpredictability, and each day he’s grown stronger. 

No man can kill what he cannot catch or outsmart. 

“You’ve never told me who taught you to fight,” Jon remarks, his curiosity finally getting the best of him. He’s never dared ask for much more than what’s been offered. 

Patrick’s eyes are closed, his lashes casting a soft shadow on his cheeks in the sunlight. Jon’s not sure he’s ever seen a man with lashes like his before. They contrast the stubble on his cheeks, the thickness of his eyebrows; the things about him that are more rugged than the delicate blue of his eyes, the slight upturn of his nose, or his dimples when he smiles. He’s so beautiful, Jon thinks he could write songs about it. 

When he doesn’t get an answer, Jon gently nudges him. 

“Mm,” Patrick grunts. He slowly blinks his eyes open, turning his head to look at him. Jon’s left a bit breathless by the whole thing, how improbably easy it feels to be lying on the ground next to someone who was just a stranger such a short time ago. 

“Who taught you how to fight?”

“Oh, I heard you the first time,” Patrick says, “But I’m so tired from beating you over and over that I couldn’t answer right away.”

His accompanying smile is soft, teasing, and it aches in Jon’s chest, filling him with warmth and longing. It’s madness to want him this way, but he does. 

“It wasn’t over and over,” Jon protests, rolling his eyes. “But you are very good. One of the best I’ve ever faced, and I’ve been to war. The way you move… I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

A light flush spreads to the apples of Patrick’s cheeks and the tips of his ears, and he averts his gaze from Jon’s. After a moment, Patrick says, with admiration in his voice, “His name was Sevardi. I trained with him every single day for years, after my family—” He pauses, brows furrowed like he’s debating how much he should say. “Sevardi came from the Free Cities. Braavos. He was... like a father to me.” 

“And your real father?” Jon presses. 

Patrick meets his eyes again. “Why do you want to know?” 

The question isn’t cold, but curious, wary. It’s been consistently obvious that Patrick doesn’t easily trust since the second they met. Over time, his guard has lowered, but Jon longs to be solidly on the other side of it. 

“I want to know you,” Jon says, and he finds himself turning into him, shifting to his side to better face him. “Really know you.”

“No one wants to really know me,” Patrick objects. He takes up a strand of hay in his fingers and starts picking it apart, piece by piece. 

Very carefully, Jon reaches out to place his hand over Patrick’s to still his fidgeting. 

“I do,” Jon says. His heart beats too loudly, too fast in his chest as he waits for an answer.

“I—” Patrick starts, dropping what’s left of the hay. His hands are cold. Jon wants to warm them in both of his, but he won’t push. This is enough. For Patrick, it seems like it might be nearing too much. He takes a deep breath and blows it out as he quietly says, “I want to know you, too, Jon Pyke.” 

Jon Pyke. 

The promise of the moment is crushed by the sudden weight of his guilt, his lie palpable between them. It was always there, but never quite so present. It’s bittersweet when Patrick turns one hand over, lacing his fingers between Jon’s. He knows he can’t let this go on under false pretenses, even though he desperately wants to. 

More than that, Jon wants these moments to be founded in truth, so he squeezes Patrick’s fingers and withdraws his hand, an obtrusive awkwardness wedging itself between them. Jon clears his throat. “It makes me happy to hear that, Patrick, but we should...probably go, I think. Got supper soon.” 

“Sure. Supper,” Patrick says. He clears his throat, disappointment flashing across his face before he locks his expression into the picture of indifference. It makes Jon sick to his stomach to think he might’ve ruined this before it’s even really started. 

He has to come clean, but he doesn’t know where to begin. 

It’s been so easy pretending. 

+

That night Jon takes watch over the Gate, in need of some time alone to clear his head and figure out how to fix the mess he’s made. There’s obviously more than one, but being on the Wall in the first place is unfixable as far as he can tell, unless he wants to be called a deserter, too.

Jon knows what he’s doing with Patrick is wrong and he has to make it right, no matter what it costs him. He prays to all the gods who’ll listen that it doesn’t blow up in his face.

Patrick has to forgive him. Until then, Jon deserves to be out in the cold by himself. 

The wind blows harder atop the Wall, nipping sharply at the back of his neck as he looks out to the vast, frozen land beyond it. Wildling territory. Jon’s almost afraid to get too close to the edge, that a forceful gust might push him over and down the hundreds of feet it would take to hit the ground below. His body would be unrecognizable. They would only know it was him because they would know he had been on duty.

He sits in front of the small fire beneath the parapet, and it helps, but only so much. It grows colder each hour, the night always much worse than the day. It’s as if two distinct seasons exist within a single turn of the Earth on its axis—the coolness of late Summer then the bone-chilling dead of Winter.

Jon hears footsteps at his back and turns to the sound of them. 

“It’s bloody fucking cold up here, Jon,” Patrick complains. He’s carrying a thick blanket in his arms, and thankfully, wearing the heavy coat and hat he picked out the first day they met. 

“It’s not so bad by the fire,” Jon says. “Did you bring that from your bed?”

“No,” Patrick answers, “I brought it from yours, but I should’ve taken both and stolen someone else’s too. We’re going to freeze.”

“You’re not staying up here,” Jon objects, and Patrick makes a face, surely objecting to being told what to do. 

“I am, actually. I can’t sleep down there alone, and you’re not supposed to be on watch alone either. What if you pass out and we’re attacked?”

“I couldn’t fall asleep up here if I wanted to,” Jon mumbles, leaning back against his post. 

“Scared of heights?” Patrick asks, sitting across the fire from him. Jon watches the flames dance in his eyes. 

“Everyone should be scared of heights,” Jon says.

“Good thing you’re a bastard and not a Targaryen then, huh?” Patrick teases. 

He’s right. Jon probably wouldn’t ride a dragon for a thousand bags of gold and Winterfell. Okay, perhaps for that. Still, Patrick’s sarcasm is rewarded with a powerful gust of wind that makes his teeth chatter, and he crowds closer to the heat. Every breath comes out white. Jon aches to put his arms around him.

“Patrick, I—” The words stick in his throat. He shouldn’t, not when he should be confessing other things, but he can’t help it. “We’ll keep warmer if we’re closer.” 

Patrick stills despite his shivering. “You should’ve said something before I sat down. I don’t know if I can move now. I’m already frozen solid.” 

“I could come to you?” Jon offers, and Patrick holds his gaze, searching for a moment before he nods his consent. 

Jon slowly gets to his feet, joints cracking with stiffness from the cold, and moves around the fire. He’s shocked when Patrick scoots away from his own post and toward the flames, leaving just enough space for Jon to squeeze behind him. He stares, careful that his mouth doesn’t hang open. 

“You did say closer,” Patrick shrugs off, but Jon can hear the nerves in his voice clear as day. Then, impatiently, “Are you going to sit?” 

Jon doesn’t speak. Words aren’t the answer Patrick wants, and he’s not sure he could, anyway. Instead he slips behind him, holding his breath as he lowers himself to the ground. 

It’s awkward at first. Patrick fits perfectly between his thighs, but keeps his body rigid, leaning forward instead of back. 

“Patrick,” Jon whispers, placing gloved hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently through all the layers of clothing between skin. “I’ve got you.” 

Patrick trembles under his touch, then wonderfully, eases into Jon’s arms, pressing his back fully against Jon’s chest and giving over his weight. Having Patrick so close is overwhelming. Jon thought to be beside him, that he might wrap an arm around Patrick’s shoulders if he got brave enough, that they might share body heat beneath the same blanket. He never expected to have Patrick so solidly and completely in his space. He has to resist the urge to duck his face and nuzzle into Patrick’s neck. 

“Better?” Jon asks. 

“It’s hard to believe anyone could feel warm right now, but you do,” Patrick says. 

Jon soaks it all in, tries to remember exactly what it feels like to hold him, since he might not ever get it again. The last thing he wants is to disturb the peace between them, but he must.

He steels himself, his confession on the tip of his tongue and threatening to escape his lips.

“Patrick, I need to tell you something.”

“Tell me about the war you fought in,” Patrick says, leaning his head back on Jon’s shoulder. The redirection catches him off guard, but he can make it work for both their purposes. 

“I fought in King Robert’s rebellion, then again in the rebellion against King Robert five years after that. My House has always been loyal to the Baratheons, so it was expected he would have the North’s support,” Jon says. He wants to stop, but he can’t, the truth pouring from his mouth. “Robert named me Warden in the North at fifteen. I’m not a bastard, Patrick. I’m Jonathan Toews, the exiled Lord of Winterfell. The Commander is my father. I don’t know why I—I’m so sorry for lying to you.”

“Jon,” Patrick starts. He turns in Jon’s arms as best he can, meeting his eyes and holding them for a while before speaking again. He takes a deep breath, blowing it out like Jon might not be the only one hiding something. “I knew who you were the second I saw you. I came from King’s Landing. I heard everything. Everyone knows the Lord of Winterfell is on the Wall.” 

The corner of Patrick’s mouth lifts into a soft smile before he continues, “But even if I hadn’t, you absolutely reek of nobility. You should’ve seen your face when we were cleaning the armory today. You looked like you were being tortured.” 

Jon doesn’t believe what he’s hearing, so out of his mind he can’t even refute Patrick’s teasing. All that time wasted, afraid he’d risked everything on a stupid lie and a moment’s relief, when Patrick’s known the truth from the very beginning. 

“You’re not angry? It’s not what you think, Patrick. What I’m accused of—”

Patrick kisses him in a sudden press of lips, then they separate so quickly Jon wonders if he dreamed it. Except he can feel the wetness on his mouth from their slight parting, Patrick’s hand still against his cheek. “I care about who you are, Jon. Not what they say you’ve done or haven’t done. Joffrey Baratheon is rotten to his core, worse than King Robert was, but you’re not. I don’t know why you lied, but every person has a right to a do-over, to define themselves by the parts of their past that they choose. I thought you might tell me the truth when you were ready, and I see I was right. As usual.” 

“As usual,” Jon repeats. Then, “I’m sorry, Patrick. When I thought you didn’t know who I was, being a bastard just seemed easier than explaining everything else.” 

And the longer he waited, the harder it was to find the right moment to bring it up. The words stuck in his throat too many times to count. 

“You can try that in a minute,” Patrick says, leaning in to take his mouth again. It’s different this time, not just to stop his rambling but to truly kiss him. Patrick’s lips part further, and Jon feels his tongue coaxing for more. Jon gives it, pulling off his glove to touch Patrick’s face properly. It’s everything he thought it would be. Every part of him is alive, singing with closeness and relief, the cloud of his dishonesty gone from over his head. 

When they separate, Patrick smiles at him, and Jon smiles back, helplessly. 

“I like this very much,” Jon says.

“Which part?” Patrick asks, settling into him. 

Jon looks him over, wrapping his arms tightly around him. “All of it.” 

+

“Jon, we were thirteen the year of King Robert’s rebellion,” Patrick remarks in the waning hours of the night. Neither of them have slept, and Jon knows they’ll regret it come morning. He’s intended to get up and stoke the fire for some time now, too, but can’t bring himself to do it. 

Instead, Patrick’s been resting in his arms, and Jon’s told the whole truth about how he came to be here. 

He talked of the raven that was sent to him in Winterfell, carrying an unsigned message from the Iron Islands. His mother truly is Iron Born, and it’s significant that she stands for House Toews in the North. It keeps the alliance strong, communication open. 

The message told of women being brought from beyond the Wall, then taken south using a stolen ship from the Iron Fleet. Its sender didn’t say who was responsible or to what end, only that Jon should know that no Iron Born had anything to do with violating the King’s Law and thus breaking faith with the North. 

Jon sought answers for himself and found enough claims to be true to justify bringing it all before the Crown to spark a wider investigation. He went in good faith, after a raven was deemed insufficient, as a confidante of King Robert’s when he was alive. 

It meant nothing. He should’ve known going to King’s Landing meant never going home again. 

Jon quickly learned the wrath of a mad, cruel King with slaver’s blood on his hands, and a wicked family feebly trying to hold their power steady. It was Joffrey all along. Torturing palace women had become too pedestrian a sport for him, and they knew Jon would never go quietly having discovered it. 

Patrick didn’t seem surprised by the information in the slightest, more disturbed by Jon’s war history than anything else. 

“Patrick, I’ve held Winterfell since I was eight years old,” Jon reminds him. “By thirteen, I was—”

“Seasoned?” Patrick finishes. There’s no mistaking the concern in his voice for a version of Jon long behind them. “You were just a boy.”

He sounds horrified, but to remain on the sidelines would’ve been worse for him. “There were many boys on the battlefield who lost their lives beneath my banners,” Jon explains. “I had an obligation to stand with them.”

A heavy silence drags so long Jon fears he might’ve fallen asleep. Then Patrick asks, “Did it help that you stood with them, or did it just make you feel better?” 

Jon thinks for a moment before he answers.

A lord should never ask of his men what he does not ask of himself, and his presence alone was enough to boost morale. The Lord Commander’s son, taking the field for the first time. Young and untested. It got the men excited. 

Then Jon remembers the ones they sent to slaughter. A diversion troop. Always smaller in number and might, right into the brunt of enemy forces. He certainly didn’t help them, on another field entirely with superior numbers and an unsuspecting enemy in their sights. 

It was his second battle leading the Northern army, and his second victory. 

“Both,” Jon says, “And neither.” 

“I remember wishing my father would leave me and my sisters and fight,” Patrick says. “I didn’t care for which side or rebellion. He wouldn’t have helped anybody, anyway. He’s drunk and useless all the time. But it would’ve made me feel better.” 

“Where was your mother?” Jon dares ask. 

“She died when I was seven,” Patrick says, his voice going hollow. “Took my youngest sister with her.” 

It’s nearly the same age Jon was when his father left, not that they’re all that similar. Death is a painful, permanent thing, different from running away. Though Jon wonders if it would be simpler with his father gone from this life entirely. Instead, he lived a couple hundred miles away, having chosen to abandon their family for the Wall forever. 

Still, he can’t imagine having lost his mother so young. She was all he had. “You were just a boy, too,” Jon says, echoing Patrick’s words and squeezing him tighter. “No child should have to lose their sister or mother.” 

“Or father,” Patrick adds. He tilts his face to look at him, and Jon drops his forehead to rest against Patrick’s, breathing in deeply until his lungs burn from the cold. “He shouldn’t have left you.”

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” Jon admits. His words drift away in the wind, tightening in his chest before they go. His mother only ever spoke of duty and the Lord Commander’s calling to the Wall. Everyone else applauded the Commander’s sacrifice, the selflessness it must have taken to abdicate his seat to protect the North from the heightened threat of Wildings during the Long Winter. Back then, Jon didn’t care about any of that. He’d never even seen a Wildling or heard much about them apart from his uncle having been killed by one before Jon was even born. He just wanted his father to stay, to give him one inkling of attention or affection outside of his lessons. 

“He shouldn’t have left you,” Patrick repeats. “Now someone’s said it twice.” 

“I’m here now, and he can barely stand to look at me,” Jon says, his voice too raw and revealing of everything he’s kept hidden. He didn’t expect their reunion would be overly pleasant, but he never anticipated this coldness, that the floors of Castle Black would be made of glass. 

“Jon,” Patrick says. Jon finds his eyes, warm with sincerity. “I’m looking at you.” 

Jon leans in until their lips nearly touch and waits for Patrick to close the distance. He meets Jon’s mouth in soft, gentle kisses that make him forget about everything else. 

After a while, Jon murmurs, “You should sleep. We’ll be named to our orders tomorrow.”

“Only if you promise to wake me later and sleep some yourself, Ranger,” Pat offers. 

Jon smiles and kisses him again, pulls the covers snug around them. He imagines only one of them will be named to the Rangers tomorrow, and it won’t be him. 

Still, he agrees without protest. 

“Deal.” 

As Patrick drifts, Jon gazes at the stars above, and in them, counts all the ways tomorrow could possibly go wrong. 

The Commander taught him it’s always best to be prepared. 

+

Jon stares up at his father where he stands on the steps of the Lord Commander’s Tower, looking out over their group in the West Courtyard. It seems as though they do everything here, but never once has it felt so crowded and stifling. The Commander will address the newcomers as they’re surrounded by the old, then the Maester of Castle Black—a man of the highest order, scholar and physician, confidante of the Commander—will read the list of names and positions, forty-nine in total. 

Jon can feel the sweat beading at the back of his neck despite the cool morning breeze, his palms growing hot. He’s more nervous than he had been on his knees before Joffrey. At least he’d known the Wall would be his fate in that situation. Jon’s used to control, and here he has little. 

“You’ve arrived from all over Westeros,” the Commander begins, “To protect the Wall and the Realm. It doesn’t matter who you were before—” He meets Jon’s eyes, then seems to look through him. “It matters who you are now, who you will be tonight and all the nights to come. Men of the Watch. Tomorrow you’ll take the Black, then make your way to your new posts. Embrace them. They’ve been selected to exploit your talents for the good of the man next to you.”

The man next to Jon is Patrick. He didn’t care much about his assignment before. Now all he can think about is making sure they remain together. 

When Maester Aemon starts his list, an anticipatory hush falls over them. Jon looks at the faces of his brothers and sees his own anxiety reflected back. 

“Kit, to the Rangers. Tollett, Rangers. Rast, Rangers. Janos, Builder at the Shadow Tower.” 

Jon balls his hands into fists, squeezing as an outlet for his nerves and growing frustration. Not even the satisfaction of Rast and Janos’s separation can distract him from it. He’s prepared himself to hear his name called and learn he’s been assigned to a different tower at either end of the Wall, too. 

“Grenn, Rangers. Pyp, Builders. Finn, Rangers. Samwell, stewards. Ned, Builder at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.” 

The Maester drags on, and with each name spoken, Jon grows more anxious, knowing he’s one closer to Patrick’s or his own. 

“Kris, Builder. llyn, Builder at Shadow Tower. Jon Toews—”

The whole world seems to slow. 

“Stewards.” 

Jon waits for the rest, but it doesn’t come. He’s staying here. The realization makes him light with relief, even if he won’t be a Ranger with Patrick. He’ll be a fucking servant, but he’ll be here.

“Jacob, Ranger. Patrick,” Maester Aemon says, “Builder—”

It’s not the worst thing. 

“—at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.” 

It all comes crashing down. Jon gasps under his breath. 

“ _No_.”

Their brothers glance around, confused and uneasy. All except Rast, the smug look on his face enough to make Jon see red. If anyone deserves to be a Ranger, it’s Patrick. He could take on any established Ranger in the Night’s Watch and win. Jon knew it after only a day of training with him. 

The Maester keeps reading.

This is wrong. 

“No, no, no.” 

He looks over to see Patrick staring straight ahead, stone-faced. 

Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. 

This was purposeful, a message sent: Jon is not to find happiness here.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a fog, and the moment they’re free, Jon is on his feet, moving far away from the crowd as quickly as he can. He walks, then keeps walking until he disappears into the treeline south of Castle Black. 

He braces himself against a wide, sturdy Pine, letting his fingers flex against bark and breathing in the sweet smell of sap. 

“Jon,” comes a hesitant voice, then a hand on the back of his arm, another at his waist. “What do we do?”

Jon turns to Patrick, gripping him gently by the nape of his neck to pull him into his body. 

“You can’t go to Eastwatch, Patrick,” Jon says into soft curls. They’ve only just done away with the lies and fallen into each other’s arms as Jon’s so longed to do. They can’t have it snatched from them now. “I won’t let him send you.” 

“Don’t let him send me,” Patrick pleads, wrapping his arms around him. He hides his face in Jon’s chest— “Please.”

+

Jon knows better than to burst in on the Commander out of his mind. He won’t get anything accomplished that way. So instead, he and Patrick walk back to the castle and act as though nothing’s changed. 

They go about their daily routine, with a newfound tension bubbling beneath the surface. It could all end tomorrow. 

They eat. They spar. 

Patrick meets the other Builders destined for Eastwatch. Jon talks with Maester Aemon regarding his servant duties. 

It could all end tomorrow. 

They sleep across the room from each other, and Jon feels that invisible string between them.

He wonders if it could stretch to the sea. 

+

The next day, Jon rises before the sun. All night he was restless, an aching pit in his stomach that’s persisted through until morning. He’s at his father’s mercy, and that’s never a comfortable place to be. He’ll put himself there for Patrick, though, to keep him safe at Castle Black. 

That thought drives Jon into the Lord Commander’s chambers, where he finds him sitting calmly at his desk, writing on a scroll destined for the talons of a raven.

“Good morning, Father—”

“Before you waste your breath so early on this good morning,” the Commander interjects, glancing up from his papers with dark, unforgiving eyes, “All decisions handed down yesterday are final.” 

“You’re the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Jon says flatly. “You can change your mind about anything.” 

“And I don’t want to change my mind.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” Jon argues, “Depriving the Watch of what could be its best Ranger in a long time. And for what? To teach me a lesson? His skill deserves better use than this.” 

“Don’t pretend it’s about his damned _skill_ ,” the Commander says, like the word makes him sick. “I’ve done this to keep you focused.”

“On what?” Jon asks, struggling to keep his voice even. “Serving my brothers their dinner and cleaning up after them?” 

“All positions within the Watch are an honor to hold,” the Commander recites, “Important in their own right.” 

“Of course they are,” Jon says. This is maddening. He thought all night about how this conversation might go, but Jon should’ve known that negotiating with his father would be no negotiation at all. “I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, Father, but I’m asking you to keep him here. He’s my only friend.”

“Friend?” the Commander sneers. “Is that what you call it now? Hiding your perversions under the disguise of friendship. You think I don’t see, but I always have, and the way you two look at each other disgusts me.”

Jon feels the chill of discovery over his skin, a learned prick of shame creeping down his neck and making him squirm. He tries hard to dispel it. He’s not ashamed. Even as the world around him screams at him that he should be. 

He takes a deep breath and blows it out with closed eyes, then blinks them open to look at his father. His Lord Commander. 

“What will it take?” Jon asks, unwilling to suffer more insults when they could get right to the heart of the matter. “There must be something I can do.” 

The Commander pauses, thoughtful. 

“There could be.” 

Jon can only assume he’s had something in mind from the beginning. “Name it.” 

“I don’t want you to be just any steward, Jon. I want you to be my personal steward. You’ll have your own quarters, and when my time as Lord Commander is over, you will take Castle Black.” 

Jon huffs an impossible, hysterical laugh. “Let me see if I understand you. You don’t want me to serve my brothers food and clean up after them for the rest of my life. You want me to serve you and clean up after you for the rest of yours? Shall I draw you a bath, Lord Commander? Turn down your bedsheets?”

“Careful,” the Commander warns. “It is you who came in here asking for favors. You will serve me, and in return I will groom you for leadership on the Wall and allow your… _friend_ to stay here.” 

“Groom _me_ for leadership?” Jon repeats, dumbfounded. “Will it take you fewer than eight years this time, or will we drag it out a bit longer since you’ve got nowhere else to run?” 

“You will serve me to the best of your abilities and keep away from that boy, so help me,” the Commander grits through clenched teeth. “Those are my terms. Now get out of my sight, or it will be you who’s sent to Eastwatch.” 

An empty threat. He can’t live trapped beneath the Commander’s thumb at Eastwatch, and that’s what he wants. 

Jon makes himself say it, just as he made himself say it to Joffrey at King’s Landing. Cold and detached, “Thank you, Father. I look forward to many days spent together.” 

In a lot of ways, the situations are similar. Jon’s been manipulated and bound to a life he never asked for. Twice it’s been at his father’s hand. He brought Jon into this world, not because he truly wanted a son, but to give him Winterfell, and now because life has cruelly brought Jon here instead, Castle Black. 

“Leave,” the Commander says, and so Jon does, closing the door quietly behind him instead of slamming it off its hinges like he wants. 

+

Jon’s numb as he descends the steps and walks back to the West South Tower. All he wants to do is lie down and quiet the thoughts in his head with sleep. He hopes Patrick is resting now, too, instead of worrying over everything. 

Which, of course, means he’s waiting on the porch of their quarters, huddled in the corner with a blanket wrapped around him. 

“That took less time than I thought it would,” Patrick says, extricating himself only enough to stand. He keeps the blanket over his head and snug around his body. Jon wants to climb inside with him and disappear. 

“My father doesn’t mince his words,” Jon replies, fighting the urge to go to him and pull him close. 

“And what was decided?” Patrick asks, voice stilted with nerves.

“You’ll stay here, Patrick,” Jon says, with the most genuine smile he can manage. He doesn’t want to seem ungrateful for that fact. “I told you I wouldn’t let him send you away.”

The relief on Patrick’s face is temporary. “But you look unhappy. There’s something else? Don’t tell me he’s sending you instead. That’s not what I wanted—”

“No,” Jon stops him. “He’s not sending either of us anywhere.” 

“Then why does your face look like that?” Patrick asks. He pulls the blanket from his head, and it makes it harder somehow, for Jon to see all of him and say what he has to. 

He brushes an errant curl off Patrick’s forehead with his fingertips. 

“I’m to be his personal steward and take Castle Black when he can no longer serve as Lord Commander,” Jon says, then reluctantly finishes, “And I’m to keep away from you.” 

“What?” Patrick asks, taken aback, “Why?” 

“Because, Patrick,” Jon says, dropping his gaze, “He’s angry I’m here. He knows how I feel about you. This way punishes me for all of that and ensures my cooperation in whatever else he wants. That’s why.” 

Patrick takes a step toward him. “And how is it you feel about me?” 

“I’ve thought of very little but you since the moment I first saw you,” Jon answers truthfully. Patrick takes another step. “I’ll never forget how warm you felt in my arms, or how steady your heart beat under my hand as you slept.” 

Another step, until Patrick’s right in front of him. “Feel it now, Jon.”

Patrick parts the blanket, and Jon slips his hand inside, pressing at Patrick’s chest. His heart beats much faster and harder now, and Jon closes his eyes to really feel the rhythm of it, breathing him in. 

It’s unimaginable that Patrick will be right here, but untouchable. So close, but out of reach. 

“How am I supposed to stay away from you?” Patrick asks, mirroring his thoughts, so quietly Jon’s not sure he meant to say it out loud.

Jon takes his hand away and folds Patrick back inside his little cocoon, presses his lips to Patrick’s forehead. His throat is too tight for words. 

He has no idea what to say to make anything better, anyway. 

+

Later that same morning, they gather to take the Black. The Lord Commander and Maester Aemon look out over them all, just as they did the day before. 

The day that changed everything. 

“For those who still serve the Old Gods,” the Maester announces to the group, “There’s no godswood, but there is a heart tree in the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall. You may go and recite your vows there, if you’d like.” 

Jon steps forward. He honestly wouldn’t care where he said the words—though his House honors the Old Gods and New—but the idea of leaving the castle and getting a taste of freedom is too tempting. He might not get another for a while. 

Out the corner of his vision, he sees Patrick coming, too. It makes Jon happy they’ll have this, even if it will provoke his father. It would reek of hypocrisy to punish Patrick for his faith, which is exactly why the Commander might do it. 

“Very well,” Maester Aemon says, and Jon makes his way to the tunnel to begin the walk through the Wall, with Patrick and a few elder Watchmen close behind. 

As they approach the massive door at the tunnel’s end, a man atop the Wall turns the crank to lift the gate. It’s the only sizable path through across the entire length of the border, separating Castle Black and the North from the vast, frozen land of the Wildlings. It’s expected to keep out Free Folk and Thenns, Hornfoots and cave-dwellers, giants and—in the worst possible circumstance—White Walkers. 

It’s reinforced many, many times over and defended from the top in an attack. 

Once the Gate is up, all Jon can see is white, snow-covered trees and never-ending mountains. The wind howls across the tunnel opening sharp as glass, and Jon looks to Patrick at his side. 

“Does your family really keep the Old Gods?” Jon asks. 

“What?” Patrick starts, incredulous. “You think I’m out here about to freeze my dick off and wade through a mile of snow just to be with you for a while?”

“I might’ve thought that a bit,” Jon admits.

There’s a smile playing at the corner of Patrick’s mouth that lights him up, makes his heart beat fast in his chest. 

“Well, you might be right about that,” Patrick confesses, “But we also keep the Old Gods.” 

Jon smiles impossibly, nudging him as they take their first steps out into the open and begin walking toward the forest. 

“It’s beautiful,” Jon says after a while, taking it all in. He breathes deeply, lets the fresh air fill his lungs. This is freedom. He never wants to go back to Castle Black again. 

Jon glances at Patrick, perfect in the sunlight, his blue eyes bright against snow. He whispers wildly, “What if we just… run away, Patrick? Join the Free Folk?” 

Patrick meets his eyes. “We didn’t pack anything. No supplies at all,” he says, actually sounding regretful through his practicality. “We’d have to plan it better.” 

Jon is shocked silent by how easily Patrick would agree to such a ridiculous idea. “You really would?” he asks, slightly pleased by it all the same. Patrick would run with him. 

“I’ve got nothing better to do,” Patrick reasons, and Jon has to bite down on his lip to keep from laughing. It’s a nice idea, much better than the reality they’ll return to on the Wall.

After a long walk, they come upon the heart tree, a massive white oak with a face carved in its side. Their conversation is cut short by ceremony. He and Patrick are directed to stand together and say the words, to get it over with so they can all go back where it’s a little warmer.

“Night gathers,” they start in unison, “And now my watch begins.” 

It feels wrong in his gut. Jon already took an oath. To protect Winterfell. To give his life for the North if need be. 

“It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post.” 

And now he’ll give his life to the Watch. 

“I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the Wall. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.” 

From this day, until his last. 

+

That night Jon sleeps alone in his quarters, tossing and turning endlessly. His mattress is more comfortable, but Jon had grown used to the sounds of other men sleeping in the shared bunk. Now the silence nags at him, echoing strangely in his ears and making him paranoid. He’s too alert, jumping at every creak of the floorboards, crackling of the fireplace, and gust of wind in the leaves.

Jon thinks about Patrick over in the West South Tower. It’s not Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, but it’s not close enough, especially as the possibility of that gap growing wider hangs over their heads. It was strange to separate from him when they returned from beyond the Wall. Jon’s obviously spent his entire life doing things without Patrick, but he feels Patrick’s absence like a hole in his chest just the same as he lies in his bed. 

His bitterness only makes it worse. It didn’t need to be this way. His father should’ve come to him, and they could’ve reached an agreement on mutual terms, not through deceit and manipulation. Jon would’ve done it without all this. He could’ve had Patrick, too, and been as close to happy as he could be under such an unfortunate circumstance. 

Instead, the Commander found a way to twist everything and use his power over Patrick as leverage.

And tomorrow Jon will begin his first day of serving him, forever. 

+

Each day that passes feels like ten. 

Jon sleeps alone, then wakes in the morning to make the Lord Commander his tea and fetch his breakfast. After, he goes to the Maester to gather any messages that came in the night. His other activities consist of listening to things he doesn’t care about. It’s all the kind of business Jon used to handle in Winterfell, except darker, colder, and hideously boring. 

Discussions about food stores and supplies between the Commander and his advisors. Meetings with the Firsts—captains of every order: Thorne of the Rangers, Benjen of the Builders, and Othell of the Stewards—to review daily progress and needs of the men. Visits with runners from all over Westeros and along the Wall. 

More people come and go than Jon ever expected. Some bring prisoners for the Watch, others gossip. Some he’s privy to, some he’s not. It’s a curious thing. 

Still, Jon would rather be readying the North for Winter. 

He tries to make the best of it.

+

The first bright spot comes within the month, on a cold, early morning much like all the others. 

Jon hates getting up early. Always has. He hates it even more now, because he knows only his servant duties await him. There’s not much that separates him from his mother’s handmaiden back in Winterfell. He’s thankful he doesn’t have to brush anyone’s hair in addition to emptying their chamber pot. It’s all tougher to swallow, having fallen so far. Still, the Commander expects him.

Jon knocks on his door, two sealed messages handed off by the Maester in his coat pocket, and waits. 

Nothing. 

He knocks louder, impatient. If his father insists on having him rise before the sun, he could do Jon the courtesy of being ready to receive him. Still, there’s no answer, so Jon pushes the door open, hoping to at least get in and out before the Commander returns from wherever he is. 

His stomach growls, the floor squeaking beneath his feet as he walks. Jon’s not sure why he’s nervous to get caught when he’s supposed to be here, but he is, that rush of adrenaline shaking him from the haze of sleep and monotony.

There are papers all over the Commander’s desk, stacked in messy piles. It reminds him of his own back in Winterfell, and the thought irritates him. Something so simple about his personality could’ve come inherently from his father when he’s never really been one to Jon at all. It makes him too introspective and raw for the morning. 

Instead of thinking about it further, Jon idly wonders if it’s in his job description to straighten everything up as he places the scrolls on a patch of bare table where they’ll be spotted, and turns to leave. His stomach growls again, and Jon’s already making for the dining hall in his mind when he hears the door to the back room opening. 

Perfect. 

“Jonathan,” the Commander stops him. 

He was so close. 

“Good morning, Father.”

“You’ll report to Master Marsh when you leave here. I want you in training with the Rangers.” 

Jon’s taken aback, surprised to be given the opportunity so quickly, or at all. The idea excites him. The physical activity will help keep his mind off how horrible everything else is, and frankly, it’s satisfying to think about how much it must’ve pained his father to pay him the indirect compliment. 

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” the Commander says sourly, ruining the mood and proving Jon right all at once. “You’re to assist and nothing more. I haven’t put you in charge of anything.” 

“Yes, Father,” is all Jon answers, but in reality, he knows the truth of the matter. He’s to lead the Watch eventually, and every task until then is a test. 

And Jon will pass. For himself and Patrick. 

+

As much as he craved it, Jon skips breakfast and heads straight to the Master, too shaken now to eat. His father doesn’t deserve it, but a small part of Jon wants to prove that he’s worthy of his new assignment. It makes him strangely anxious in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a boy left alone with a castle. 

So, he hits the ground running. He works hard that first day, physically and mentally, looking for ways to improve the Watch. 

It takes only an afternoon and a couple conversations with Master Marsh to find one.

Jon learns that for the last thousand years, the Night’s Watch has only been training the Rangers. A few dozen men out of nearly three-hundred. That’s a sufficient number for patrolling beyond the Wall, but not to properly defend Castle Black. Jon argues that every person should be trained and competent with a weapon, even if it’s only light swordwork and basic strategy. Builders, especially, grow strong in their work. That strength should be put to better use. It’s lazy for it not to be. Useless hands are a liability with a garrison as small as theirs. 

Jon’s points were practical and true, but the initiative wasn’t without secondary motive. His mother always taught him to make the most of his opportunities. 

When the Master agreed, Jon quickly devised a schedule to implement routine sessions with the other orders. Patrick’s order. The best among them would do their training alongside the Rangers. Patrick would be the best among them. 

At every step, Jon thought of him, tired of only catching glimpses and stolen conversations otherwise. Because Castle Black is thousands of years old and falling apart, there’s always something that needs to be fixed, and it’s never in the Lord Commander’s chambers or any of the meetings Jon’s forced to sit through. 

What seemed so promising a short time ago has been stagnated by duty. Jon hasn’t spoken to him at all in two days and every added second feels like a crack in his chest splitting wider. He wants to see Patrick, and this way he can. Regularly. 

The Commander’s conditions be damned. 

+

The morning of their training, Jon can barely wipe the smile from his face long enough to stave off suspicion when he’s in with the Commander. Anticipation colors everything he does, adds a spring in his step that’s unfamiliar to this place. He delivers his father’s breakfast with excitement in his heart, ready to be near Patrick and lose himself in sparring and strategy. 

Jon looks out his window and sees him, one of the first to report to the West Courtyard. Jon allows himself to be hopeful that they can sneak away after it’s done, squeeze in some time alone before the next obligation separates them again. If he watches for a moment, caught in thought and desire for him, no one has to know about it. 

When Jon finally emerges from his quarters, Patrick smiles at him as he descends the steps. 

“I thought about coming up to get you, but I was afraid the Commander might be watching. I haven’t quite nailed down his mornings yet.” 

“I’ve missed you,” Jon breathes out in a rush, unable to entertain anything else. 

“I can’t believe you set this up,” Patrick says, then once Jon reaches the bottom, “You look exhausted.” It’s not what Jon was expecting. “When’s the last time you slept?” 

“Last night,” Jon says. He might’ve tossed and turned for a while, but he rested a few hours before it was time to get up. 

“When’s the last time you slept _well_?” Patrick amends. 

“What’s it matter? I’m fine,” Jon says stiffly. In truth, the last night he slept well was in Winterfell, but there are more pressing things to talk about in their finite time together than his sleeping habits. “Haven’t you missed me?” 

Patrick’s eyes soften. “Don’t be so grouchy. Of course I have.”

“Then tell me,” Jon urges. Now that Patrick’s here in front of him, Jon feels desperate for him. Something inside pulls him forward, further into Patrick’s space than it’s safe to be out in the open. 

“I’ve missed you, Jon. I’ve thought of very little but being with you again,” Patrick says, echoing Jon’s words from the morning they took the Black. It feels like so long ago. Patrick’s smile turns mischievous. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not too tired to offer me some good competition today.” 

Jon blows out a breath and it escapes like a laugh, all the tension leaving him and relief taking its place. 

“I’ll give you all I’ve got.” 

“Good,” Patrick says, “That’s what I want.” 

+

They train hard in their limited time, discussing tactics as a unit then breaking off into smaller groups. Jon moves from one to the other to help where he’s needed, careful not to appear to be leading anything. He wouldn’t want to overstep the bounds that the Commander so rigidly defined for him, especially while overstepping others entirely. 

Assist the Master and nothing more. 

Stay away from Patrick. 

The least Jon can do is comply with half of those duties. 

As he makes his rounds, it’s immediately obvious that very few of the Builders have ever held weapons in their lives, so they start with the basics. How to properly stand and grip a sword. How to effectively defend an attack. How to survive. 

It’s a minor disaster, but necessary. They needed this more than Jon knew when he proposed it. It’s not as if they’re expecting one, but under enemy strike, this group as it stands would be painfully useless.

All but one.

It takes much longer to move on than Jon would like, his impatience on the verge of getting the better of him. Even Patrick’s taken on an instructive role at this point, assisting rather than pretending to learn. Jon feels as though they’re finally starting to make a little progress when Master Marsh yells at them to stop. 

“Seven hells!” he gripes, “That’s enough hand-holding for the lot of you.” Jon agrees, and by the look on Patrick’s face, so does he. “Choose a partner and figure it the fuck out!” 

Jon’s been waiting for that since the moment they started, eager to focus all his attention where it belongs. Beautiful blue eyes meet his, the corner of Patrick’s mouth curving into a slight, dimpled grin that Jon instantly returns. He goes to Patrick, pleased when his smile only grows wider as Jon gets closer. He feels it like a warm touch against his skin. It’s the brightest thing Jon’s seen since he got here. Perhaps the brightest thing he’ll ever see again. 

Patrick says, “It’s been a little while.” 

An understatement. 

Jon raises his weapon. “Hopefully you haven’t gotten too rusty.” 

Patrick laughs. “We’ll see how rusty you think I am when you’re on your back in the dirt again.” 

“Not a chance,” Jon replies. “I know all your tricks.”

“You like to think so,” Patrick says. 

Jon thought he did, but Patrick’s tone makes him wonder what else he’s hiding behind that devilish smile. 

They knock swords to begin, and every man around them slowly disappears into the periphery. Jon’s missed this part of Patrick’s companionship almost as fiercely as the others. Sparring with him is more enjoyable than it’s ever been with anyone. For some, swordsmanship is only duty. For others, it’s a craft and discipline, an expression of physicality unlike any other. 

Jon feels that bond with Patrick and uses this time with him to release his own frustrations, to unwind the tension coiled up tightly inside of him. He doesn’t hold back, and neither does Patrick. It’s an indescribable comfort to let go, and in it, Jon loses track of time and space, pushing himself and being challenged in return. 

It’s not until they’ve taken a bout each and paused for a breath that Jon realizes every person in training has stopped to watch them. Even the Master. Jon meets his eyes, then watches where they travel, up to the porch of the Commander’s quarters. 

He’s there, gaze disdainful on the both of them, and Jon’s stomach sinks, a sickening feeling overtaking every ounce of exhilaration and replacing it with nerves and the sharp twist of fear once again. He’s caught. No way around it. 

“That’s enough for today,” Master Marsh announces. “Builders, get back to your regular duties. Try not to forget everything you’ve been taught before the next lesson.”

Jon glances back to where the Commander was standing to find him, thankfully, gone. He turns to Patrick. 

“What do you think he’ll do?” Patrick asks, taking an instinctive step away from him, as if that makes things better in the slightest. It stings a little, even if it has nothing to do with Jon and everything to do with his father. 

He’s acutely aware of what the Commander said and what the consequences could be. “I—don’t know,” Jon admits, cringing through visions of Patrick bound for Eastwatch. At the end of the day, the heart wants what it wants, and they were only sparring. It’s not as if the Commander caught them in bed together. Though now, Jon can easily picture them there. He imagines how it would feel to lay with him for unhurried hours, and suddenly Jon can’t be bothered to worry about much else. It’s easy to convince himself that Patrick is more useful to the Commander here as a bargaining chip than at another castle over a hundred miles away. He’s willing to test how much room they have. 

“I need to see you, Patrick. Meet me later. Please?” 

“You would go against your father for me?” Patrick asks, sounding more unsure than Jon would like. 

“Yes?” Jon answers, gesturing around them. He thought it was more than obvious. “I already am.”

“I thought this was to improve the Watch?” Patrick says, a small smile threatening his seriousness. 

“I mean, that, too. Yes,” Jon agrees. “But I said I’ve missed you.” 

Patrick stares quietly for a moment, apparently thinking through his hesitation. 

“I’ll come to you,” he finally says, sounding decided enough that Jon doesn’t question him. 

Then Patrick turns around and leaves him standing there, watching after him and wondering when and where he might return. 

+

The afternoon drags on.

Jon finishes up with the Master after an unsettling exchange, then reluctantly goes to the Commander’s Tower to receive his schedule for the rest of the day. Again he’s made to wait, left sitting in his father’s office until he returns from a meeting Jon wasn’t invited to. He wonders if he’ll be told what was talked about. Probably not. 

Based on his conversation with Master Marsh, it’s clear there are plenty of things being kept from him. He’d stopped Jon before they parted, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Jon,” the Master said, his voice somehow more gruff than usual, likely to disguise the coming sentiment behind it. “The Commander cares for you. Even if he can’t show it properly.” 

Master Marsh has always held sympathy in his eyes when he looks at Jon. Perhaps it comes from having the Commander as the closest thing to a friend in his life. He, too, understands it’s a lot like having no one at all. 

“And why can’t he?” Jon asked, not expecting a real answer. 

“There are things—” Master Marsh said, annoyingly vague, “Circumstances you don’t know. He feels guilt, for many good reasons, and guilt is powerful.” 

Jon thought it was an ominous fucking thing to tell a person with no further explanation. At the end of it, he was irritated and apparently much further in the dark than he imagined himself to be.

In a way, it’s lucky he has his suspicions to distract him while he waits. It helps to take his mind off what he’s truly anticipating. Still, Jon would rather be helping in the kitchen than sitting alone with only his thoughts to occupy him, but he’s been given no choice in the matter. 

To busy himself, Jon decides to tidy the Commander’s desk. It bothered him before, and now he has plenty of time to rectify the situation.

As Jon glances over the papers, he takes pride in the fact that there was at least some order to the chaos covering his workspace at Winterfell. A method to his madness. His father’s things seem to be strewn with no discernible pattern or organization. It would take him all day to parse through everything and decide which documents should be filed together or thrown away entirely, so Jon resorts to simply straightening the piles. 

He tries to detach from the process, to erase meaning from the words he sees. The last thing he wants is to have the Commander burst in and accuse him of snooping. Gods forbid he add that to his list of grievances. 

A raven’s scroll falls to the floor, and when Jon bends to get it, the message is face up. He doesn’t mean to read the words, but they seem to stand out on the small, crumpled paper:

_The Lion goes through walls, not around them. Remember that._

It’s very peculiar. Unsigned. 

Jon can’t decipher if it’s intended to be motivational—words scratched down to be revisited in times of doubt, another habit they might share—or threatening. Since it wasn’t meant for him, it makes sense that the true meaning is lost, but still, it nags at him. It keeps nagging at him long after he’s stuck it near the bottom of a neat pile of papers, inconspicuous and out of sight. 

Jon’s sitting all the way across the room from the desk, but still he jumps when the Commander opens the door and walks through. 

“Father,” Jon says, clearing his throat. “How was the meeting?” 

“Informative,” his father answers. “As was this morning.” 

“It benefits the Watch if every man can fight,” Jon says. It was the first line he used in convincing the Master. It should be the only thing that matters. 

“How convenient for you that it does,” the Commander says, crossing the room to his desk. He’s surprisingly brief, and there’s no discernible anger in his voice. His calm indifference makes Jon more nervous than he would’ve been if his father had come in screaming curses.

“I straightened the desk,” Jon says for the sake of saying something. 

“I see that you did,” the Commander remarks. “How was that experience?” 

Jon repeats the answer he got. “Informative.” 

“Mance Rayder has assembled an army, started calling himself ‘King beyond the Wall,’” his father says with something akin to disgust in his voice. “They’ve begun migrating down the Frostfangs, and because that suggests we’ll be attacked, I am allowing you to continue with this endeavor we both know you started to defy me.” 

“I didn’t—” Jon objects. “We were only sparring. We both know he’s the only one here who can offer me any real practice. Why can’t you accept that if that’s all there is?” 

“Because that’s not all there is, and you are my son,” his father says. “Regardless, he’ll miss your next training session, and probably the one after that. He’s to go out on the next patrol to inspect for damages to the Wall east of Castle Black, halfway to Eastwatch. It needs to be sound in the event of a Wildling attack, so I expect he’ll be gone for weeks. How’s all that for informative?” 

“Beyond the Wall,” Jon says. He can hear the surprise in his own voice, the reality setting in. It’s difficult to remain calm. “You’re telling me that Mance Rayder has assembled an army of Wildlings to attack Castle Black and in the same breath tell me you’re tossing Patrick out there with it?” 

“A patrol unit consists of two Rangers and two Builders,” the Commander states. “He’s a Builder, is he not? You’ve begged me to take advantage of his skills with a sword, and so I am. He has grown strong. He proved that today. It should be his honor to serve his brothers.” 

“How convenient for you,” Jon spits back at him. He can’t allow himself to think of anything other than Patrick going out and coming back safely or else he might lunge across the table. He hardens himself, strips down to practicalities. “What makes you think Mance is going to attack?” 

“What else would Mance Rayder be doing with an army?” the Commander asks. “He hates us. He used to be one of us. South is the only direction worth going from beyond the Wall, and the only way to get there is through here.” 

It feels like the most obvious answer that isn’t an answer at all, deliberately nonspecific and short-sighted. Jon’s more concerned with what would come after. It’s bold to attack the Wall, particularly with the intentions of traveling through to the North. It would rise against a mobilized Wildling army with full force. At a time not so long removed, Jon would’ve stood at the front of them.

There has to be some reason Mance would risk leading his men to slaughter. Or perhaps there’s more than one Mad King in Westeros. 

“How did you find out about this?” Jon asks. 

“It’s my job to find out about things,” the Commander tells him. “Remember that.” 

_Remember that._

Jon pictures that scrap of paper once more, hidden in a stack of garbage on the Commander’s desk. He’s lost his will to argue, each back and forth like a blow, blunt and exhausting. 

“If that’s all, Father, I think I’ll go down for supper.”

“You’re free to go,” the Commander says. 

Free. 

It’s a laughable word to use. Jon felt more freedom in the dungeon at King’s Landing. At least in there, he knew he would be released. 

There’s only one release from his current prison. He remembers his vows: I shall live and die at my post, a watcher on the Wall. 

Jon turns and leaves. 

+

Jon eats alone, glancing around to look for Patrick more often than he’s proud to acknowledge. He said he would come to Jon, but so far there’s been no sign of him.

There’s no sign of him later either. 

Not when Jon leaves the dining hall. Not when he slowly makes the walk across the West South Courtyard, passing in front of Patrick’s sleeping quarters. Not when he checks the East South Courtyard, or drags his feet up the stairs and into his own chamber once he can’t put it off any longer. 

As far as he knows, Patrick could be beyond the Wall already. All it would take is a single Wildling ambush, and Jon would never see him again. 

The thought is crippling. 

Knowing the only way out of his head is through unconsciousness, Jon lights a fire and gets in bed. He stares at the ceiling, counting away the seconds until sleep overtakes him.

He prays to the gods it’s sooner rather than later. 

He tries not to think. 

One. 

Two. 

Three… 

Ten...

Nineteen...

Forty-five… … 

Eighty…

Jon startles awake to the sound of a muted thump from inside his quarters. Adrenaline takes over, and he draws the dagger he keeps sheathed beneath his pillow, instantly upright and on the defensive. 

“Who’s there?” 

“Woah, easy,” comes a hushed voice from the middle of the room. Patrick’s. “It’s just me.” 

As Jon’s eyes adjust to the dim light from the waning fire, he can just begin to make out Patrick’s figure, cloaked in black. He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly, trying to quiet the alarm bells ringing in his head and steady the beating of his heart. 

“ _How_ did you get _in_ here?” 

There seems to be no disturbance in the room aside from Patrick’s presence. Neither the window nor the door are ajar, no cool breeze blown in from either of them having just been opened to allow his entrance. It’s just like fighting him: Patrick’s got a knack for suddenly slipping away and reappearing some place he wasn’t before. 

“That’s a secret,” Patrick whispers, then, “I’m sorry I woke you. I hope you’re still happy to see me.” 

“Of course I am,” Jon says, “What kept you so long?”

“The Lord Commander barely sleeps,” is all Patrick says, and Jon can only assume that means he’s often being watched. He can easily picture his father staring at him through the window of his quarters, and having someone else do it when he’s unable. Then he remembers something Patrick said earlier in the day when they were alone before training: I haven’t quite nailed down his mornings yet. 

While the Commander’s been watching Jon, Patrick’s been watching the Commander. 

“I see I’m not the only one who’s been scheming,” Jon says, unable to hide how much he likes it. 

“I would’ve come to see you long before,” Patrick explains, and it’s clear in his inflection that he means long before tonight, not only the current hour. 

“Come see me now,” Jon says. The invitation comes out in an anticipatory breath that’s cut short when Patrick starts to unfasten his outer coat, like he plans on getting comfortable. Jon stares longingly, unable to think beyond kissing him, holding Patrick in his arms. He wants to be close to him, then closer still. He wants to enjoy every blessed progression to wherever they’re headed. 

Just as Patrick starts to shrug his second coat off his shoulders and onto the floor with the first, he stops. “Oh, almost forgot—” He reaches into its inside pocket. “I brought you something.” 

“What is it?” Jon asks. 

“Essence of Nightshade,” Patrick says, proudly, “To help you sleep better.” 

Jon will ask how and where in the seven hells Patrick acquired that later, but for now, all Jon can feel is the heat in his cheeks, the way the world speeds up and slows down all at once as he looks at Patrick, holding out a tiny glass vial for him.

“If you’ll stay tonight,” Jon says, “I don’t think I’ll need it.” 

Patrick finishes removing the coat, kicks off his boots on the way. He sets the vial on the table and in one fluid motion, straddles Jon’s lap where he sits on the side of the bed, a comfortable, solid weight against him. Jon runs both hands over Patrick’s upper thighs, enjoying the firm flex of muscle through fabric. He’s come so far since his first days here, hard labor and extra dinner rolls having served well to fill him out. 

Arms slide around Jon’s neck, fingers cold against bare skin. It’s a sharp, dizzying contrast to have Patrick so close, on top of him while still fully clothed with Jon nearing the opposite end of that spectrum. He shivers, leaning up to meet Patrick’s mouth as it inches closer to his. 

“Stay,” Jon repeats, barely more than a whisper. 

In a ghost of the kiss Jon’s been waiting for since their first, Patrick says, “Of course I’ll stay.” 

Jon takes his mouth. 

+

They kiss. 

They kiss for such long intervals Jon’s lips start to tingle, and he loses track of where his tongue ends and Patrick’s begins.

Slowly and so carefully, Jon dares to undress him further, to strip Patrick down to his bed clothes. It’s not to any particular end, even as Jon’s cock grows heavier between his legs. He can’t remember the last time it felt so satisfying to do this. To simply kiss and let his hands roam, to be touched in return and wholly welcome it. All he wants now is to move Patrick under the covers and continue there, to lay down with him in a real bed wearing fewer things.

“Your mattress is more comfortable than mine,” Patrick notes. He wiggles in place once they’ve settled, smiling with closed eyes like he’s soaking it in while he can. 

Jon draws him closer with a hand to the small of his back. “You can borrow it anytime you like.” 

“Promise you won’t yank a knife out from under your pillow next time I come in?” Patrick chuckles, nosing along the edge of his jaw. 

“You snuck up on me,” Jon says. “I wasn’t expecting you.” 

Patrick stops, pulls back to meet his eyes again. A brief moment passes in which he seems far away, mind traveling behind them to a fond memory, perhaps. He looks at Jon like no one’s ever looked at him before, his smile soft and eyes full of sentiment. His voice is low, rough with emotion when he says, “I wasn’t expecting you either, but there you were, staring at me from across the courtyard with this serious face.” He brushes his fingertips over Jon’s brow, around his eye and down his cheekbone. “And now here I am in your bed.” 

“I can’t believe you’re in my bed,” Jon marvels, lips parting on a sharp inhale when Patrick’s other hand is suddenly between his legs.

“What are you going to do about it?” Patrick challenges.

“Whatever you’ll let me,” Jon murmurs. “Anything you want.” 

“Give me your hand,” Patrick says into another kiss. He grips Jon’s cock through fabric, squeezing to make his meaning clear. “I can’t wait for anything else tonight.” 

What began unhurried suddenly grows urgent, especially knowing Patrick’s there, too. Jon reaches between them, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Patrick’s linen pants and tugging down the front until Jon can get to his cock, hard, thick in his hand. The angle isn’t spectacular, but at the first touch of hot, smooth skin, Jon knows they can manage perfectly like this. He can bring Patrick off with his hand and keep kissing him. 

Jon strokes the impressive length of him from base to tip, trying to gauge what Patrick likes. By Patrick’s low, encouraging moans, it’s moderate pressure, Jon circling his thumb at the head every few upstrokes, kissing his neck and collarbones. 

Patrick moves his hips in time with Jon’s hand, lost to it for a moment, then he follows Jon’s initiative, getting his hand down Jon’s underwear and around him. 

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes out, toying with Jon’s foreskin. He bunches it near the tip, then presses in with his thumb, smearing precome as he explores the full length of him. His voice is appreciative, fraught with need, “Promise you’ll fuck me with this someday.” 

“I want to,” Jon says, helpless to it. Patrick’s hand is bringing him to the edge quickly enough to warrant embarrassment. “I’ve wanted you for so long, in _every_ way.”

The deep truth of it makes his cheeks flame hotter.

“Make me come, Jon,” Patrick tells him, and Jon chases those words with his mouth, speeding his hand on Patrick’s cock as Patrick speeds his own. He fucks into Jon’s fist, and it’s not long before he’s spilling onto his hand and into the space between them, gasping into his mouth. 

“Yes,” Jon says, “Yes, Patrick, that’s it."

“You now—” Patrick refocuses as his orgasm wanes, says, “Come for me, Jon.” 

And almost instantly, Jon loses himself, too. 

+

They doze after, sleeping on and off. 

When they’re not sleeping, they touch and kiss to the crackling sounds of the fireplace. 

Patrick lays across Jon’s bare chest, pressing random kisses into flushed skin. Jon traces patterns on Patrick’s back, makes the pleasant discovery of a silver chain around his neck as fingers drift into the hair at Patrick’s nape. He lets his fingertips run over cool metal, then leaves it. Patrick traces a delicate line that connects the moles on Jon's face to the one behind his ear, then over the scar that marks Jon’s shoulder from a sword that ran him through late in battle. 

When they’re not sleeping or silently touching, they talk. Jon asks the question that’s been on his mind since shortly after Patrick snuck in. 

“Where’d you get the Essence of Nightshade?” 

Patrick laughs quietly, placing a soft kiss to the base of Jon’s throat and mumbling into skin, “Bothering you that bad not to know, huh?” 

Jon won’t even attempt to argue that it doesn’t. “Yes.” 

Patrick leaves a trail of kisses up to Jon’s ear, playfully closing his teeth on the lobe before whispering, “I took it from the Maester’s cabinet. Don’t tell anyone.” 

“Patrick,” Jon says, disapproving, “What if he’d caught you?” 

“I’ve only been caught stealing once in my entire life, and that was nearly two decades ago,” Patrick says, obviously insulted by the very implication that getting caught is possible, even when committing a crime as obvious as rummaging through the Maester’s chambers. “The old man is fucking blind, Jon. Have a little more faith. I snuck in on you, didn’t I?” 

Jon chuckles, “I suppose you did. And I am happy you thought of me.” But it raises another question. “How did you come to be here, Patrick?” 

He never knew for certain what Patrick’s crimes were, but Jon is familiar with the tendencies of starving men in a city of chaos. Jon thought stories of what King’s Landing had become were exaggerated. Joffrey had barely been King three years. It couldn’t be that bad already. Then Jon arrived himself and walked through its streets, finding them lined with garbage and shit and beggars. Under those circumstances, Jon would steal to feed his family, too. He would do anything necessary. 

“Believe it or not,” Patrick starts, “I was arrested for stealing, officially. It was understood that I would volunteer for the Wall.” 

Jon would’ve easily believed it two minutes ago, but now it doesn’t make any sense. 

“You just said you’ve never been caught stealing,” Jon says, then waits for Patrick to explain. 

“I haven’t. I’m a good thief. But my little sister is… not as good. I’ve done plenty else in my lifetime to deserve to be here though.” 

“She got caught, and you took the blame for her?” Jon guesses. 

“They needed food, and I wasn’t around to get it for them. They were going to send her to a brothel in the city. All for being hungry,” Patrick says, and it’s clear it makes him sick to think of it. They both know what happens to women in whore houses at King’s Landing, especially if they end up in the Red Keep, where Lions and a cruel boy King sleep and torment. “There was nothing I wouldn’t have done to keep that from happening.” 

“Patrick, I—” Jon doesn’t know what to say, the injustice of it all turning his stomach. He feels a weird sort of conflicted powerlessness, unable to fix things long passed to ease Patrick’s suffering, all the while knowing Patrick wouldn’t be here with him now if things hadn’t happened exactly as they did. “I don’t think saying I’m sorry would even begin to cover it.” 

Jon absently wonders how many of their other brothers were victims of circumstance and corruption, not actual crimes, in finding themselves on the Wall. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Patrick says, then pointedly meets Jon’s eyes, “But not for this.” 

Jon kisses him long and slow, cradling Patrick’s head against his chest when they part. It’s obvious now that neither of them should be here, but they are, and what Jon can do to help fix it now is be here for him, no matter what. 

For as long as Patrick will allow it. 

+

“When do you leave?” Jon asks later, chest tight with nerves at the idea of hearing the answer. 

The mood around them grows tense, somber. He didn’t mean to cause it, but Jon has to know. The sun already threatens the horizon, encroaching on their time together. 

“Tomorrow,” Patrick says quietly. “I mean, today, I guess. This morning. The Commander couldn’t give you time to weasel me out of it again.” 

“I would’ve tried,” Jon tells him. 

“I know,” Patrick says. “I don’t want to go.” 

“I don’t want you to go,” Jon seconds. “Promise me you’ll be careful, that you won’t fight any Wildlings if you can help it.” 

“If I can help it, I won’t,” Patrick says. “I promise.” 

Jon holds his gaze then leans in to kiss him, hard and lingering. “Come back to me.” 

“Okay—” 

Patrick presses their lips together again, repeating, “Okay.” 

+

Patrick is gone when Jon wakes, having left as he came without sound or disturbance. Jon understands the impulse to avoid saying goodbye, even as it hurts that they didn’t share one. 

He takes comfort in their night together, knowing everything that needed to be said was said with kisses and touches that carried on until morning, without saying anything at all. Goodbye wouldn’t have changed the outcome. The place beside him in bed would still be empty now, cold to the touch. 

Jon stretches where he lies, drawing in a deep breath. They didn’t sleep much, but it was restful when they did, and he feels better, if worse for other reasons at the same time. He dreads getting the day started, but sits up anyway, turning to put his feet on the chilly, wooden floor. 

The vial Patrick left is still on the table next to him, but this morning, Jon notices a small piece of paper beneath it. His heart races as he snatches the note, careful of the Nightshade, and unfolds it. 
    
    
    _No more than two drops in your tea to help you rest, or else the nap will be longer than you planned._
      _I’ll be thinking of little but you._
      _And freezing._
    
      _Patrick_

His words soothe the sharp edges of his absence, particularly the ones that feel like theirs to share now, a private thing between them. He’ll be thinking of little but Patrick, too. He rarely does nowadays. Jon finds himself helplessly charmed by his handwriting, the dramatic swoop of the letters in his name. Jon wonders who taught him to read and write, not that Jon’s surprised he can. He’s learned a few lessons in doubting him already, and none have resulted in Jon’s favor. He wouldn’t be shocked if Patrick taught himself. 

Jon smiles, refolding the note and placing it safely in his coat pocket when he dresses. 

He reads it three more times before the afternoon.

+

It’s hard to focus on training. Jon’s worry is like a lens over his eyes. Everything is colored by it and reminds him of it, conspiracies and worst-case scenarios playing out in his head on a continuous loop. 

He theorizes about Mance’s motivations, whether or not he’s truly mobilized this army he’s gathered. Jon doesn’t want them attacking the Wall at all, let alone while Patrick’s on the wrong side, traveling along a backdrop of ice like a sitting duck in open water. 

Even without the additional threat of Mance’s army, no matter his reasons for assembling it, the night is inherently more dangerous beyond the Wall. Free Folk know the land better than any man of the Night’s Watch ever could, and they’re not afraid to use the darkness to their advantage in an attack. 

Jon’s not blinded enough that his own irrationality is lost on him. He advocated for Patrick to be named a Ranger, and the job of a Ranger is to go much deeper into the Haunted Forest and Frostfangs than Patrick would ever have to venture on a repair patrol. Rangers have the highest rate of mortality within the Watch, killed by Wildings more often than they’re killed by anything else. 

At the time, Jon couldn’t see through the injustice to the obvious dangers. On merit, Patrick belongs with the Rangers, and on some level, Jon imagined himself out there with him to have his back. Not stuck at Castle Black, powerless. 

“You begged me to take advantage of his skill with a sword, and so I am,” the Commander had said. 

Jon’s getting what he asked for, but it’s all wrong. Instead of arming Patrick with a sword and reliable support, he’s been sent out with a hammer on a prayer.

It’s not what Jon wanted, but it’s the nature of the Watch unless you’re named a Steward. Perhaps by making Jon one, the Commander was protecting him in his own fucked way. It makes more sense, as the notion that he’ll be grooming Jon for leadership in this position is laughable. 

He takes a break to clear his mind, his last train of thought pushing him over the edge. He walks over to prop against the closet thing he sees that can support his weight: an old, damaged wagon from a previous patrol. It was set aside only to perpetually wait in the periphery of the courtyard for someone to fix it. Jon wants to bang his head against it in frustration, but he settles for absently watching the men spar. They’ve got a group of stewards today, and they’re more hopeless than the Builders were. Perhaps Jon only thought they were any better because Patrick was among them. Either way, it’s not helping his mood. 

Jon takes a deep, steadying breath, the cold air burning his lungs in welcome, searing distraction. He glances down to where his hands grip at the wooden supports of the wagon, digging his nails into it until the worn edges splinter off and fall to the ground. 

Piece of shit. 

Jon leans down to examine its damage—a broken axle protruding from the back wheel—baffled how they managed it on patrol. As he looks it over, he quickly realizes the wagon would probably go on rotting there forever if it were up to him to fix it manually. Back in Winterfell, he would’ve had someone else do it by now. 

In his curiosity, something catches his attention in the light, long like silk. Strands of yellow hair, snagged on a splinter and yanked from the tail of a horse, perhaps. Jon carefully removes one from the wood, quickly deciding it’s too fine to be horsehair. If it were shorter, it could pass for Patrick’s, kissed by the sun. Jon spares a moment to wonder where it could’ve come from, then spares another to wonder why he’s wasting his time wondering about something so stupid. A theme of the day, apparently. 

He releases it from his fingers, watching as it catches in the wind and floats away. 

+

The conversation goes on for half an hour before the Commander brings up Mance and his army. 

It’s another meeting of the Firsts, with Maester Aemon and Master Marsh seated at either side of the Commander, permanent figures in most official proceedings. They’re probably the only two people who can stand to spend so much time with him, or maybe they’ve just gotten used to his glowing personality. 

Jon’s genuinely surprised to have been allowed in at all. He never gets invited to anything with worthwhile discussion. It’s always divvying up duties and day to day monotony when he’s included. The Commander must be throwing him a bone after spitting in his face. 

“The… situation beyond the Wall—” 

He starts like he’s commenting on an insect, inconveniencing him by crawling across his floor rather than an impending attack.

“How many have reached Skirling Pass?” 

Jon isn’t an expert on northern geography, but he’s fairly certain that’s near the Fist of the First Men, which isn’t really the Frostfangs at all. It’s much further east, where the Frostfangs become the Haunted Forest. Much closer to Castle Black. 

“Last scout to make it out of the Frostfangs says they’re up to hundreds,” the First Ranger, Alliser Thorne, reports, “Maybe thousands.” 

“Seven hells,” Jon grumbles beneath his breath. It’s a horseshit report if he’s ever heard one. _Hundreds, maybe thousands_. As if there’s no significant difference from one to the other. 

“Jon,” the Commander says, turning everyone’s attention on him. Jon naturally straightens under it, looks him in the eye. He’s used to this. He welcomes it. “Do you have something to add?” 

“Should have sent a scout better at counting,” Jon remarks.

“Oh, like you?” Thorne asks, voice dripping with disdain, and in it, the suggestion that Jon doesn’t belong here. “You wouldn’t last one night out there. Too used to the walls of Winterfell, sitting warm by a fire someone else built.” 

Jon fights the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes, having built the fire that warms the very room in which they all sit. 

“Perhaps we’ll see about that,” Jon muses. He doesn’t like all the mystery around Mance Rayder and his army, no matter the number of them, and he likes being underestimated even less. He’s not an invalid. While Thorne’s been riding around in circles chasing Wildlings all these years, Jon’s overseen half of Westeros, commanded armies of his own in times of war. Now he’s here, left guessing at how many united Free Folk are out there with Patrick and readying to march, all because Thorne’s scout can’t give a clean fucking estimate.

Not that it matters. A half dozen Wildlings would be more than enough to raid Patrick’s patrol unit. Seizing Castle Black from that side of the Wall, however, is a different endeavor entirely. A near impossibility. The thing stands several hundred feet high and fifty yards thick. It’s not feasible for Mance to send his entire army over it to attack. Jon can’t figure out why he would think it a wise decision to have most of his men to die at its foot. 

He looks to the Commander. “How long has Mance Rayder called himself King beyond the Wall?” 

When the Commander doesn’t answer, a voice comes from beside him. 

“If you’re asking when we started catching wind of herds of Wildlings four times the size we’ve ever seen,” Master Marsh says, “Then over halfway past a year.” 

“Does Mance know why I’m here?” Jon asks the Commander still, the inquiry bleeding into more awkward silence. 

The Commander stares at him, blank-faced. Finally, “How am I supposed to know what truth Mance Rayder knows?” 

“You did tell me it was your job to find things out,” Jon reminds him. “Something’s inspired them to organize. If we’re expecting an attack on the Wall for the first time in years, shouldn’t we be concerned why?"

“And how do you suppose we find out? Just ride right into Mance’s camp and ask for a chat?” Thorne asks. “They’d be picking their teeth with your bones.” 

“Not my bones. The Frostfangs are quite far, and I’d never make it a single night beyond the Wall,” Jon says, throwing Thorne’s own words at him. “Maybe you should choose a scout who can count to go on a full reconnaissance mission.”

He can’t be sure of the exact origin of his boldness. Could be lack of caring. There’s not much left for the Commander to use against him with Patrick already beyond the Wall. Or perhaps sitting around a small council like this one has him feeling a bit more like who he used to be. Regardless, the appalled look on Thorne’s face is worth it. 

“Careful, boy,” Thorne says. 

“Careful, Alliser,” the Commander says to him, sounding inspired for the first time all afternoon. “I will handle my son.” He turns back to Jon. “You’ll do well to remember that you are here as my Steward, not as a contributing member of this circle.” 

“You asked me if I had something to add,” Jon points out. 

“And now I’m telling you to stay quiet,” the Commander says. 

Jon clenches his jaw, presses his lips into a hard line. On some level, he knows he asked for it by provoking Thorne, but he’s sick of being spoken to like a child. He’s not the eight year old boy the Commander left at Winterfell; he’ll do well to remember _that_. 

He shoves back from the table. Jon has enough self-awareness to know he won’t be able to keep his mouth shut if he stays, so it’s better if he doesn’t. No one tries to stop him, and just before the door closes behind him, Jon hears the Commander order, “Get another scout to the bloody Frostfangs, Alliser.” 

Jon’s deepest regret is that he’s too far gone for Thorne to see the smile on his face. 

+

In absence of an operator, Jon pulls the lever to start the wooden lift and quickly hops on before it begins the long, shaky ride up the Wall without him. It creaks and pops with every inch of its ascent, the air growing thinner and colder around him as it climbs. Jon takes a deep breath filled with nerves, blowing it out in a white cloud. He’s not afraid of heights exactly, but he’s afraid of falling, and the top of the Wall is higher than any person has a right to be. 

To distract himself from his circumstances, Jon thinks of the last time he kept watch. 

The night he told the truth and Patrick first kissed him, slept in his arms. Those memories inspire others, more recent and visceral: Patrick sneaking into his room, straddling his lap. Patrick gasping into his mouth, coming from his hand. Jon can recall every detail with perfect clarity. Patrick’s firm grip on his cock, the exploratory touch that drove Jon out of his mind. The way Patrick’s full bottom lip felt between his teeth. The soft sounds Patrick made as he came down from his orgasm, how he wanted to be held. It’s hard to believe it all happened only the night before with Patrick so far away now. It almost feels like a dream. 

Thankfully, Jon arrives at the top without plummeting to his death, and it only takes a simple lie to get his two brothers to leave so he can claim the watchpost for himself. 

“Don’t worry. Someone else is joining me.” 

No one else is joining him, but they don’t care. No one wants to be up here when their bed is warm down below. 

Jon offers to pull the lever and sees them off, then reluctantly walks to the edge of the battlement to survey the land beyond Castle Black. He can’t see anything at all in the darkness, but he knows Patrick’s out there. It’s fitting, Jon thinks, that he should take watch and endure Patrick’s first night in the cold with him in spirit. 

He makes the mistake of looking down and feels a sinking sickness in his belly, a rush of adrenaline as he sways back to take a more stable seat on the ground. Warm in front of the fire, it’s easy to forget about being seven hundred feet above the ground and think about other things. 

The afternoon meeting comes to mind—the discovery that the Commander is only speculating about Mance’s motives, but seems convinced he’s planning an attack. 

The timing is conspicuous. For nearly two years, they’ve been assembling. For nearly two years, Joffrey’s stolen Wildling women to torture in the Red Keep. Jon can’t be positive the two are related, but he’s not prepared to rule it out. 

The question remains whether Mance Rayder knows the truth spread throughout Westeros, or the one that lies with a select number of individuals. Jon. The Lannisters—Joffrey, Lord Tywin. The Queen Mother Cersei and her twin brother. The Commander. Patrick. 

Jon hears the sudden screech of the lift coming to a halt atop the Wall, cringing at the chilling sound and the thought of who it might be. A man steps out with a smug face Jon can only vaguely place until he walks closer. His nose is pointed, hair trimmed closely on the sides. Jon recognizes him as one among the group of men from the armory months ago. 

“He said you’d be up here,” the man says, grinning like he somehow knows Jon despite having never spoken a word to him. 

“Who said?” Jon asks. 

“Pat,” the man answers. “I’m Kris.” 

“You’re a… Builder?” Jon asks, unsure if that information came from his fickle memory or imagination. 

“Something like that,” Kris shrugs. “I’m shit at fixing things, so mostly I just supervise and fist my hammer.” 

He waggles his eyebrows, but Jon can’t be bothered to acknowledge the crude joke for his own annoyance. 

“How can you supervise something if you’re shit at it?” Jon asks, then shakes his head to refocus. There are things he actually cares about to discuss. “Patrick told you I’d be up here?” 

“He said you probably would be,” Kris specifies, “And that if you were, you’d be all broody and alone, and I should stay with you.”

“I am not brooding,” Jon says, rolling his eyes. “I’m just fine alone.”

“He said you’d say that, too,” Kris tells him. 

Jon blows out a breath, amused despite himself. Patrick’s really arguing with him from beyond the Wall via third party messenger. For a brief moment, Jon can feel his presence, that invisible string straining against the distance between them. Jon’s overcome with a tightness in his chest that crests and wanes until it fades into the background.

“What else did he say?” Jon asks.

“Oh, Jonny,” Kris says, “The look on your face.” 

Jon finds himself rolling his eyes again, put off by Kris’s unearned familiarity. He corrects, “Jon is fine.” 

Kris ignores it. “He’s got a look like that for you, too, you know?”

Jon lowers his gaze, cheeks flushing red in instant satisfaction. 

“He also told me that you should check the storage room in the northeast corner of the West South barracks,” Kris says. “That you would know what he’s thinking when you do.” 

His curiosity is overwhelming, but still Jon tamps it down, narrows his eyes. “Why should I trust anything you say? Patrick’s never mentioned you, and I remember you with Rast and Janos that day they were trying to fight him.”

“Trying to fight him?” Kris laughs. “Is that what he told you?” 

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Jon says, growing defensive. “I _saw_ —”

“What you saw was the aftermath,” Kris explains. “I was there, but I wasn’t _with_ them. I was just—”

“Supervising?” Jon says flatly. 

“Yes!” Kris agrees, snapping his fingers. “Well, more like eavesdropping. At the risk of hurting your feelings, Rast and Janos were… Well, they were having a go at you, honestly, and Pat… Let’s just say he’s got a real strong imagination when it comes to threatening people.” 

“You’re saying he… started it?” Jon asks. His reality shifts to reconcile what he thought he knew with what he knows now. He wonders about the other times he caught Patrick in near-fights with their brothers. Was it always him, aware of who Jon was from the beginning and defending him?

“He started it,” Kris confirms. “Like I said, he’s got a face for you, too.”

“Do you know what’s in the storage room?” Jon asks. His sense of duty alone is the only thing keeping him from abandoning his post to go check now. He’s long run the others off and can’t leave Kris alone now. 

“I do,” Kris admits, “But I’m not allowed to spoil it.” 

“What’s it matter?” Jon presses. “He won’t know.” 

“What can I say?” Kris smiles. “Pat wants the show, and I’m a hopeless romantic.” 

“You seem like an idiot, actually,” Jon says, but he finds himself smiling, too. Despite his earlier suspicions, Kris seems… okay. He quietly adds, “Thank you.” 

“No problem, Jonny,” Kris says. “Now scoot over and give me some fire.” 

+

When morning comes, Jon can’t get down the Wall fast enough. He paces the battlements until their replacements arrive, and Kris laughs at him. Kris continues laughing at him on the lift and laughs harder when Jon rushes off the second it reaches the ground. 

“Good luck,” Kris shouts, and Jon can only manage to throw his hand up in some semblance of a wave as he takes the steps two and a time and crosses the courtyard. He’s one step away from the porch of the West South Tower when the last voice he wants to hear rings in his ears. 

“Jon,” the Commander calls, “What are you doing?” 

Shit.

“I’m uh—” Shit. “I left something in my old barracks, I think.” It’s unconvincing, but it’s the best he could do. 

The Commander glares at him suspiciously, then manages a wave even more dismissive than the one Jon gave Kris. It’s a victory in Jon’s mind. He wasn’t stopped, and he’ll still get to see what else Patrick left for him sooner rather than later.

He’s waited long enough. 

Once inside, Jon navigates through the familiar rows of messy beds to the northeast closet as Kris said, throwing open the door. It’s dusty and oddly damp, something like mold growing in patches on the ceiling. There are piles of clothes, mostly coats and boots with holes in them and cobwebs all over. Jon has no idea what he’s looking for, but Patrick said he would know when he saw it. 

He opens all the cabinets to find the majority empty, too small to hold anything substantial inside. Jon shuffles piles of jackets around until nothing’s where it was when he started. He’s beginning to wonder if it was all a set up designed to make him look stupid or have him ambushed in a fucking closet by a pack of idiots, when he spots a quilt at the back of the room. It’s mildew-stained and smelly, and Jon reluctantly lifts it up to see what’s underneath. 

There are two saddlebags and a packsack, with tight bundles of extra clothes, blankets, and a small tent neatly strapped to its outside. Jon is taken back to the day he and Patrick spoke their vows in the Haunted Forest. 

“We didn’t pack anything,” Patrick had said to him out in the cold, serious despite the absurdity of Jon’s request to run away into the wild. “No supplies at all. We’d have to plan it better.”

It doesn’t sound so ridiculous now. 

Jon wonders if Patrick started on all this that very afternoon. Jon opens one of the saddlebags to find it full of supplies: fire-starters, bandages, a canteen, various ointments and salves, a compass, a map. He imagines the others are similarly stocked. 

Jon takes a moment to appreciate the obvious: Patrick _is_ very good at stealing. Then another to consider his oath, whether it counts as deserting if he goes north instead of south. In the next second, without further hesitation, he starts trying to figure out how to be very good at stealing, too. 

He’ll need a horse. 

+

Once he’s finished carefully re-hiding the saddlebags and packsack, Jon hurries straight to the Commander’s quarters. He doesn’t want to give more reason for his father to question what he’s been up to by being late. 

Jon crosses the courtyard, glancing around for Kris as casually as he can manage, already thinking ahead to planning. Instead, he sees Master Marsh emerging from his rooms and stretching on his porch, Builders and smiths moving about, getting started on work they paused the evening before. A few of his brothers are even shoveling pig shit to start their morning. Jon’s learned quickly that being the Commander’s personal Steward _does_ have its advantages amidst the personalized torture. 

There’s no sign of Kris in all of Castle Black’s bustling activity, but Jon hopes to have better luck in the dining hall after he checks in with the Commander. Leaving isn’t something he can easily pull off on his own, and if he was willing to help Patrick for their benefit, maybe he’ll be willing to help Jon for it, too. 

When he knocks on the door, the Commander directs him inside immediately. It’s a refreshing change of pace after being made to wait for him more times than Jon can count, even though he can see on the Commander’s face it isn’t coincidental. He’s sitting there at his desk blatantly expecting him simply to emphasize his tardiness. Any other time the Commander would be in a meeting or locked away in his room, but because Jon was preoccupied, there he is. 

“Good morning, Father,” Jon says, taking his ritual moment to swallow his pride. “Have you had your breakfast?” 

“Have you brought my breakfast?” the Commander returns. 

Jon bristles, then composes himself before speaking. It’s too early for a fight. “I’ll get that first then, if—”

“Did you find what you were looking for in the barracks?” the Commander interrupts, the weight of his curiosity sudden and sharp. His voice holds the essence of an accusation. 

“No,” Jon lies, “I didn’t.”

The tension reaches its peak in the room, because it’s all that exists between them. Jon questions whether it was an oversight to leave the bags in the West South Tower rather than moving them to his own quarters. He had no way of carrying them there without raising more suspicion, but he feels they’re exposed where they are. Or maybe it’s Jon who feels exposed, like his plans to leave are written across his forehead. 

The Commander narrows his eyes. “I think you’re up to something. I’ll find out what it is.”

By the time you do, it’ll be too late, Jon thinks. 

+

Jon sits down across from Kris in the dining hall, conveniently apart from everyone else. 

“Figured you’d be looking for me,” Kris says, his smile smug and knowing. 

“I want to leave tonight,” Jon tells him, wasting no time getting to business. The Commander is still expecting his breakfast. “Will you open the Gate?” 

“Can you get to the tunnel without anyone stopping you?” Kris counters. 

It’s a better question. Lifting the Gate requires turning a crank. Getting through the tunnel with a horse will be harder. He doesn’t want to be followed, and he knows from what Patrick’s told him, the Commander keeps an eye on him. 

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” Jon says. 

+

The day proceeds slowly, then barrels forward all at once. 

Jon attends two meetings that drag on for an eternity. One with the Commander and another with Maester Aemon. He says a bunch of words on Jon’s duties while Jon admires the medicine cabinets Patrick pilfered through and considers how to go about stealing a horse. 

In the afternoon, he reports to the courtyard for training. Rangers and Builders, again. Kris is among them, so Patrick’s absence isn’t quite as glaring as it would be otherwise. He’s entertaining and, surprisingly, better with a sword than Jon remembers from their collective training in the beginning. Sparring with him isn’t nearly as stimulating as it is with Patrick, but it’s better than nothing. 

Jon disarms him a couple times, just for fun. Kris laughed this morning. Jon will laugh now. 

“It stopped being funny after the first time,” Kris tells him, collecting his practice sword off the ground. 

“For you, maybe,” Jon smirks. “I could do this all day.” 

“Pat put you on your back once,” Kris reminds him. “I’d like to see that again right about now.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon deflects, knocking his sword right back to the dirt for bringing that up. It was one time. “If you focused on holding that thing instead of running your mouth, you might be able to hang—”

A horn blasts from atop the Wall, halting all movement below. Every man holds his breath in eerie silence, hoping another doesn’t follow. Each time it sounds signals something different. One blow means friends are approaching. Two for Wildings. Three for Walkers. 

Jon’s heart beats fast in his chest. Three’s an impossibility. Two, he’s afraid of. Not now, Mance, Jon thinks. 

Not now. 

They all sigh in relief when the single blow stands alone. It must be a Ranger returning from his route, and sure enough, Jon’s suspicions are confirmed moments later when one rides out the tunnel, cloaked in black, cheeks flushed from speeding against the wind. 

He comes straight into the middle of them, and Jon recognizes him as an older Ranger, seasoned, named Jorah. “Marsh, have you seen Ranger Thorne?” 

“I think he’s in with the Commander,” Master Marsh says. “What’s the matter?” 

“Two horn blows from a day’s ride west of here. It carried through a couple scouts before it reached me, and I was near enough to come report it,” Jorah says. “Don’t know the exact nature of it, but considering what Mance is up to… A sighting is a sighting.” 

Two horn blows. A day’s ride west. 

Patrick.

The Commander had said he intended to send Patrick halfway to Eastwatch. 

East! Of course he lied. Of course. He would make sure if Jon tried to follow, he followed in the wrong direction. The bastard. 

Jon’s heart sinks to his feet. He’s too late to stop whatever happened, but if Patrick’s alive out there, he could need help. Jon looks to Kris and whispers, “Can you have it up within the hour?” 

Kris nods. It doesn’t help that Jon’s fear is reflected on his face, too. 

“I’ll take your horse to the stables, Jorah,” Jon volunteers, trying to keep the sudden rush of urgency from his voice. He steps forward to grab the reins. “The Lord Commander will want to hear the news straight away.” 

“Thank you, Jon,” Jorah says, dismounting and making for the Commander’s Tower. Out the corner of his eye, Jon sees Kris moving to the periphery of the group. He’ll slip away, then up the lift when he can, and hopefully whoever’s guarding the top doesn’t put up much of a fuss at the crank or else Jon won’t be going anywhere. 

A gloved hand comes down hard on top of his own where he holds the leather reins. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Master Marsh asks, curious and disapproving all the same. 

“Taking Jorah’s horse to the stables?” Jon repeats. 

“We’re not finished here,” Master Marsh insists. Jon tries to pull his hand away, but the Master grips it tighter, his eyes beseeching. 

“I’ll come right back,” Jon assures him. He won’t. 

“Jon, you can’t go out there,” Master Marsh says, dropping all pretense between them. “What do you think Mance will do when he catches you? He’ll kill you or use you.” 

“Use me like the Commander does?” Jon asks. “Like he uses you and everyone else?” 

“The Commander means to leave you Castle Black. Mance will use you to start a war,” Master Marsh answers through gritted teeth, his voice tense and forceful. “They outnumber us. Is that what you want?"

“I want to find Patrick,” Jon says, since they seem to be telling the truth to one another. He’s barely thought beyond it. “I have to find him.” 

“And then what?” the Master asks, letting go of Jon’s wrist. It must be clear his mind is made. “What if he’s already dead?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says, swallowing hard. He can’t think of it. “Are you going to tell him? He’ll have to lock me up as a prisoner to keep me here. Is that what _you_ want?” 

“You’re just as stubborn as he,” Master Marsh accuses. “The Commander makes mistakes just like the rest of us, Jon, but he does care for you. Remember that when Mance Rayder starts feeding you his lies. If you survive that long.” 

It’s no less cryptic than the last time they spoke privately, and nowhere in any of his vague rambling was an answer. Jon’s not sure why defending the Commander is the hill Master Marsh has chosen to die on, but he doesn’t have time for it now. He knows the truth about his father. He’s a coward and a liar, who’s never cared about anything but exacting his own revenge and misery on everyone else. 

Jon repeats, “Are you going to tell him?"

“Yes, I’ll have no choice,” the Master says, “So you’d better hurry the fuck up.”

Jon hopes the twinge of regret in his voice means he’ll take his time doing it. He nods, leading Jorah’s horse away. 

+

There’s a lot of scrambling after that. 

Scrambling to his quarters to grab the Nightshade off his bedside and a bundle of clothes from his closet. Then scrambling to the West South Tower to get the saddlebags and packsack hidden in the storage room, thankfully still there and intact. After struggling to carry everything down the steps in one trip, he throws it all on the back of Jorah’s horse, and they hurry to stables, concealed in the treeline just south of Castle Black. 

Once inside, Jon quickly de-saddles the tired horse and looks to choose a fresh one. After bursting in the way he did, they’re all spooked, stomping in place and throwing their heads. All but one. A sleek, black Friesian that will stick out like a massive sore thumb against the white snow and ice beyond the Wall, but blend seamlessly with the darkness. If Jon can see it coming, he can choose to fight or flee. Anonymity is worth it in the nighttime. 

She’ll do perfectly. 

Just as Jon moves to ready her, the stablehand rounds into the barn. A Steward, of course. Not someone he knows, but someone who could ruin him. 

“What’re you doing with that stuff?” he interrupts, furrowing his brow. 

Jon uses the first viable lie that comes to him: “I was told to saddle the Lord Commander’s horse.” 

His eyes narrow. He has the unsettling face of a confused weasel. “By who?” 

Jon glances around in bewilderment, as if it’s painfully obvious. “The Lord Commander? Who else?” 

“Very interesting you should say,” he says, “Since I’m the one usually does it for him.” 

“Ah,” Jon says, “Of course. What’s your name?” 

“Petyr,” he answers. 

“Petyr,” Jon repeats, going for flattering but falling a little short, he fears. “The Commander really won’t be happy with this delay. You probably know that better than I do. You were on your way somewhere, you should continue. I can handle it this time.” 

“I’ll let you—” Petyr starts, the corner of his mouth curving into a smug, challenging smile. Jon wasn’t sure his face could get more punchable, but it has. He already knows what’s coming before Petyr speaks it into existence. 

“If you can pick the right horse.” 

He thinks he’s won. Not once has Jon seen the Commander ride since he’s come to Castle Black. Jon swallows the lump in his throat and goes with his original gut feeling. The Commander would surely have the best horse here, the one he already picked. 

He points, “That one.” 

The smile instantly falls from Petyr’s face, and Jon resists the urge to pump his fist in the air. 

“That’ll be all, Petyr. Thank you.” 

+

The Commander’s horse is prepared, but not for the Commander. Instead, Jon sits comfortably in the saddle, dressed in every stitch of warmth he has to his name, a black cloak of the Night’s Watch secure around his shoulders. 

Unfortunately, he’s got no way of knowing whether or not Kris is prepared. All he can do is ride through and hope. He gently takes his heels to his horse, leading her around the perimeter of Castle Black until they’re concealed at the corner of the West South Tower. 

Jon can see the tunnel, open and clear of all activity, and the courtyard, busy just earlier, now gone quiet. Perhaps Master Marsh cleared the way for him. Perhaps it’s dumb luck, everyone dispersing for supper or indoor chores as the sun retreats across the horizon. Regardless, there won’t be another opportunity so perfect. 

Jon spurs her to action, and they dart for the tunnel mouth, crossing the courtyard at a half trot. He keeps his head down, hoping if he’s seen, it’ll be assumed he’s merely a Ranger headed out on another route. Jon’s heart beats wildly in his chest, the adrenaline of a chase raging through him without anyone in pursuit. A brief glance over his shoulder confirms it again, but the feeling doesn’t wane until they’ve disappeared inside the tunnel and made it nearly to the end. 

For all the things that went wrong at Castle Black, it’s encouraging that this wasn’t one of them: the Gate is open. Jon can see the blinding white snow, hear the whistle of the wind. She carries them through, and Jon feels the weight of the Night’s Watch and the Commander’s scrutiny leaving him in a sudden, exhilarating rush. 

For now, he can breathe. 

Almost instantly, the Gate slams shut behind them. 

For now, Jon is free.

+


	2. The Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon goes beyond the Wall in search of Patrick and some answers.

**_Beyond the Wall_ **

* * *

Jon feels glaringly insignificant beyond the Wall. Like a tiny speck amidst the countless mounds of snow and trees in the forest. Without the border to guide them west, it would be so easy to venture off course, to get lost in the vastness of the wild. It all seems to go on forever.

He decides to call the Commander’s horse Lady, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to call her, and “my lady” comes naturally when he's at that disadvantage. They weren’t of much use at Castle Black, but Jon was taught his manners.

Their pace changes to fit the terrain. When the snow is deep and loose, Lady treads more slowly, and where the ground is flat and frozen solid, they sprint, galloping after the sun as it sets and leaves darkness in its place. If they ride all night, they could catch up to Patrick by dusk the following day. That’s the goal, to find him as quickly as possible. Alive. It’s all Jon can allow himself to think. They can rest in short increments until then, and after, together.

It’s probably a bit irresponsible in hindsight, but for the first time since he began the process of leaving, Jon considers where they’ll go and to what purpose. They could see the patrol route through to completion, then travel back to Castle Black. Unlikely.

They could run deep into the woods and live by the warmth of a fire, huddled together inside a tent too small for the two of them. It’s not safe to stay in one place for long, but they could figure something out, maybe find a cave in the Frostfangs.

They could turn north, angling east into the Haunted Forest where they took their vows. According to the map Patrick thought to pack, there’s a small Wildling village in that direction and further on, Craster’s Keep. Jon has heard Craster mentioned in many a discussion between the Firsts. Thorne telling of Rangers who’ve taken advantage of Craster’s particular brand of hospitality on their northernmost routes. It’s more trouble than it’s worth, as far as Jon can tell. Craster hoards his food for himself and his countless wives and daughters—the distinction disturbingly blurred between the two—and then sends request to Castle Black for compensation. Perhaps he and Patrick can seek refuge there as well and have the Commander pay for it.

The thought makes Jon smile to himself.

If they decide to move on, Craster’s Keep lies just off the path to the Fist of the First Men. West of the Fist, Skirling Pass.

Skirling Pass, where Mance sits with his army.

In Jon’s mind, seeking out Mance is stupid and reckless at the surface. It plays into his hand and surrenders Jon’s control in the matter. Thorne’s a son of a bitch, but he was right about one thing: Walking into Mance Rayder’s camp has the makings of a death wish.

On the other hand, if Mance wants to use him as a bargaining chip or catalyst to war as Master Marsh thinks, Jon would need to be kept alive. It could give him room to negotiate with Mance, maybe avoid conflict altogether if he’s amenable. Perhaps Jon’s naive to think he can alleviate centuries of tension and violence between Wildling and the Watch, but as it is, they don’t even know the true nature of Mance’s assembly.

At the very least, Jon could report how many Wildlings are in the fucking Frostfangs, and it would be more than what the Rangers seem to have accomplished in months. At most, he could learn Mance’s motives, figure out some compromise.

When Jon finds Patrick, they’ll explore every option and decide what’s best together.

+

They ride for over a day, stopping for an hour of sleep and water here and there. There’s no sign of Patrick’s patrol. No tracks to follow thanks to new snowfall, no items left behind. There’s nothing but ice and rows and rows of tall pines smattered with wide oak trees.

It’s dark again. Jon’s stomach is a bundle of nerves that grows tighter and tighter by the minute. He should’ve caught them by now. They have an entire wagon. It’s unlikely they’re traveling at some incredibly elusive speed.

The flame of his oil lamp flickers in the night, dimming as it burns. Jon’s consciousness dims with it. His stomach growls. He needs to take a piss. As important as it is to keep moving, making camp is starting to sound less like a bad idea and more like the only option.

Jon directs Lady into the trees to find an adequately concealed place among them, then dismounts and ties her up. He decides to build the fire first, to help him see to pitch his tent and thaw his fingers. Jon digs out a place in the snow, filling it with as much dry kindling as he can find. When it’s done, he stares at the pile by the light of his lamp, wishing he could will it ablaze without having to expend the effort.

“Didn’t I pack a fire starter?” comes a voice from behind him, and Jon nearly leaps out of his own skin, gasping and spinning to the sound.

“ _Patrick!_ ” Jon exclaims, stunned in place by the sight of him. He blinks, hard, and when he opens his eyes again, Patrick is still there, smiling at him in the middle of the forest. He has his own oil lamp, illuminating his beautiful face in a warm glow, and a pack on his back. Jon feels as though his knees might buckle beneath him, like all the air’s been punched from his lungs. “I was looking for you.”

“I know,” Patrick says, “What do I get for finding you first?”

“Whatever you want,” Jon answers.

“Come here, then,” Patrick tells him.

In three strides, Jon’s right in front of him, with barely the presence of mind to set his lamp on the ground before Patrick all but launches himself into his arms. Holding him tightly, fingers pressing into back and shoulders, Jon hugs him as fiercely as he imagined he would when they reunited. Patrick clings to him like his life depends on it. Jon can feel his breath tickling the skin of his neck.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” Jon murmurs.

Patrick pulls away from him, and Jon thinks he means to make room to put their mouths together, but instead he just looks confused, perhaps a little affronted.

“Why would I not be alive?”

“We heard about the double horn blast from this direction,” Jon says, “So I assumed it came from your patrol.”

“Oh,” Patrick starts, sounding oddly disappointed. “To be honest with you, I hoped the news would get lost before it reached Castle Black. It was… not what you think.”

He talks like he hasn’t even made sense of what he knows, which only fuels Jon’s curiosity.

“Well, what was it then?” Jon asks. “Did you see Wildlings or not?”

“We did,” Patrick says, “And we do need to talk about that, but—”

Jon’s growing tired of unknowns and evasions, on edge even as he can see Patrick alive and whole in front of him.

“But _what?_ ”

“I want to _kiss you_ , Jon,” Patrick blurts, blowing out a breath laced with exasperation of his own. He squeezes the back of Jon’s neck as he draws him down. “I want to light this fire and put up the tent I stole and crawl inside it to hide from the cold with you.”

Patrick massages at the base of Jon’s skull until his muscles go loose. He rolls his head in a slow half circle to stretch his neck, breathing deeply as he allows Patrick to relax him.

“How are you so calm all the time?” Jon wonders aloud, voice hushed and sleepy in the quiet space between them.

“I’m not,” Patrick confesses, though Jon’s never seen much evidence to the contrary. “I just know how to fake it better than you.”

Jon thinks to ask, “How did you find me?”

“Your lamp,” Patrick says, “Thought I was losing my mind when I caught up and saw it was you. I had to run back to grab my bag.”

“I see,” Jon remarks. He worried he might pass them in the darkness, but he couldn’t exactly comb through every inch of the forest looking at this hour. “So you saw a light from your camp and thought you’d just investigate alone in the middle of the night?”

“Something like that,” Patrick says, then, “Do I have to beg?”

It takes a moment for Jon to realize what he means, but when he does, he smiles, leaning in again. “No, Patrick.”

Jon presses their mouths together.

+

Kissing him is as wonderful as Jon remembers. Kissing him inside the tent is even better.

Thankfully, Patrick thought to pack a double for them, so it’s not as cramped as he thought it would be. Once they’re settled, lying together on a makeshift bed with too few blankets, Jon can barely remember what they were going on about before.

He kisses Patrick slowly, deliberately, then gently and sweet. Along his cheekbones and jawline. On the tip of his nose and every inch of that pretty mouth.

“I missed you,” Jon says, bringing Patrick’s hand to his cheek. He holds it in place, then turns his face to press a kiss to Patrick’s palm. “Why didn’t you tell me about the storage room? I would’ve come with you from the start.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, his voice low apart from a slight inflection of surprise. He shrugs. “I don’t know, I’d been packing it for a while. I guess I didn’t want to put you on the spot? Make you think you had to because I had to. I figured I’d just have Kris tell you, and you would either come or you wouldn’t, and I’d see you out here or when I got back.”

He shrugs again, and his uncertainty fills Jon with an uneasiness he never wants Patrick to feel for them again.

“Patrick,” Jon says, waiting for him to look up and meet his gaze. Patrick’s eyes betray every emotion he can so skillfully keep off his face and out of his voice when he wants to. To look into them now feels intensely private. “I would’ve traveled to the both ends of the continent and back to find you.”

Patrick smiles, dimpled and bashful. He says, “You did steal a horse to find me. Was that your first time?”

“Yes,” Jon confirms, his whispers conspiring. “In case you were wondering, Lady is my father’s horse.”

“Well, look at you! Going for the high risk item,” Patrick teases, his smile growing wider. He almost looks proud. Then, adorably curious, “The Commander named his horse Lady? Seems...odd for his personality.”

“No, I picked that one,” Jon explains. “I couldn’t very well ask him what she’s called before I took her from the stables, could I?”

“Probably best you didn’t,” Patrick agrees. “I like Lady.” He replaces his hand on Jon’s cheek, then lets out a breath that sounds like happiness and relief.

He says, softly, “I missed you, too.”

Jon inches closer and kisses him again.

+

Jon blinks his eyes open to morning light, much to his own surprise. He’s stiff from hours spent on the ground, spine cracking as he shifts on the blankets. It’s eerily quiet inside the tent. Before Jon has the opportunity to worry he’s been left alone again, that perhaps what happened the previous night was a lucid dream born of sleep deprivation, he turns to see Patrick awake beside him.

“Morning,” Patrick murmurs, his head pillowed comfortably on folded arms. The covers are tucked beneath his chin, stray curls sticking up in some places. The softness of the morning suits him.

“I fell asleep?” Jon asks.

Patrick smiles at him. “Yes, a good while ago.”

Jon returns it, pleased to know the answer before asking, “And you’ve been watching me?”

“Not for too long,” Patrick says. “I don’t think you moved once all night. Have you slept since you’ve been out here?”

“Yes,” Jon answers, turning over on his side. He’s close enough to Patrick’s face to lean in for a kiss, and Patrick obliges him, but only a peck. Of course he wants specifics. “Just last night, and a couple hours the night before. Give or take.”

“A couple hours, give or take,” Patrick repeats, unimpressed.

“I’ve noticed you’re very concerned with my sleeping habits,” Jon remarks. He kisses him again and purposely drags it out, triumphant when Patrick opens up and makes use of his tongue. Too soon, he pulls back.

“Interesting that you stole a horse and rode for nearly two days without stopping because of a couple horns,” Patrick says, his tone pointed but light with sarcasm, “But I shouldn’t concern myself with you?”

“For your information, it expedited my departure by a few hours, but I was coming to find you before news of the horns ever reached us,” Jon replies. He touches Patrick’s face, a caress of knuckles against the apple of his cheek. “Don’t worry, Patrick, I’ll sleep better now with you beside me at night.”

“I hope so,” Patrick says, satisfied enough if his blushing smile is anything to go by. “You’re grumpy when you’re tired.”

“Everyone’s grumpy when they’re tired,” Jon deflects, then redirects the conversation towards something more productive. “About those horns…”

“I really set you up for that one, didn’t I?” Patrick says, then blows out an incredulous breath, eyes widening as he thinks back. “It was weird, Jon. Four or five Wildings rode up on horses—"

“On _horses_?” Jon interrupts. The use of horses has always been an advantage the Watch holds over Wildlings outside of the Frostfangs. Horses aren’t so sure of foot on icy, jagged rocks, but they can move efficiently along the Wall and into the Haunted Forest.

“Leather saddles and all,” Patrick adds, as if he found that detail particularly noteworthy.

Jon does, too. “So, supplied to them.”

“That would be my guess,” Patrick agrees. “Unless Mance found a tanner and saddler under a rock somewhere.”

The obvious question hangs unspoken between them: Who is it?

He goes on, “Anyway, they rode up, Tollett panicked and blew the horns even though I told him to wait, and they just circled around over and over, looking at us, and that was it.”

“And that was it?” Jon asks, taken aback. “They just…rode off?”

Patrick nods.

“What in the Seven Hells?” Jon mutters under his breath. “That _is_ fucked.”

Rarely does that sort of encounter end without violence.

“It gets worse,” Patrick reveals. “Jon, I think—You’re going to say I’m crazy, but I think they were looking for you.”

“Me?” Jon can feel his face contorting into the picture of disbelief, even as Master Marsh’s warnings needle at the back of his mind. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I tracked them after and heard them talking,” Patrick confesses with an alarming degree of nonchalance.

Jon blinks at him, shocked silent for a moment. He distinctly recalls a promise Patrick made not to engage the Free Folk. He can’t win an argument about it on technicality, since following isn’t exactly the same thing as fighting, but the fact remains: Jon’s not even sure a veteran Ranger of the Night’s Watch would have the audacity to pursue a group of Wildlings alone, especially ones on horseback. If they did, more likely than not, they wouldn’t live to tell about it.

“That’s an unfortunate habit you’ve got, tracking things down alone,” Jon notes. He’s always suspected Patrick of having a bit of a reckless streak. He sees it in the way Patrick fights so fearlessly, flirting with the blade of a sword with his hands behind his back. He wonders how deeply it runs, then stores it away for another conversation. “Want to tell me what was said?”

“A lot of nonsense, but ‘Commander Crow,’” Patrick reenacts, making his voice sound wild and ridiculous, “Hoarding his precious little lord inside his castle. Come out, come out!’ was the major tip-off.”

“By all means,” Jon bristles, “Don’t paraphrase on my account.”

It’s unsettling and mildly insulting, infantilizing. He’s not been hoarded anywhere. He’s respected his oath. Jon rolls to his back, eyes on the roof of their tent. It’s hardly the point, but—

He grumbles, “Precious little lord. That’s… not very flattering.”

He’s had his name and image torn down before his eyes inside a year. The reaction is mild given what he feels. 

“Oh, come on,” Patrick says, nudging him playfully. He moves closer, reaching out from his blanket for the first time to slide his hand across the plane of Jon’s chest, to kiss his bare shoulder. He mumbles against Jon’s skin, his voice low and appreciative, “We both know nothing about you fits that description.”

Jon can feel his frustrations melting away, his concern shifting from the irritating circumstances before them to Patrick’s tantalizing proximity. To the way his thumb grazes Jon’s nipple as fingers travel down his stomach, gently tickling over tensing muscle.

When Patrick reaches the waistband of Jon’s pants, he dips his fingertips just beneath it, brushes them back and forth. “Are you getting into this, or is it just me?”

“Not just you,” Jon breathes out. He’s learned how quickly Patrick can get him there, how everything suddenly becomes secondary apart from the anticipation of more with him. It’s all so new, each act itself as well as having the time and opportunity to experience it.

“What do you want, Jon?” Patrick asks. He licks his lips, leaving them glistening and painfully alluring.

Jon’s dizzy with everything he wants, but looking at Patrick now, he finds himself saying, “Your mouth. I want your mouth.”

In one smooth motion, Patrick blankets Jon’s body with his own, a knee on either side of his thighs. He secures the covers over them before capturing Jon’s mouth, and as they kiss, Patrick rolls his hips, slow and sensuous. Jon’s cock was already thick from the morning, and the unhurried, delicious friction of Patrick against him is suddenly giving it purpose. He gets his hands under Patrick’s shirt, craving skin and the flex of Patrick’s obliques as he moves.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Jon groans, pressing his fingers into Patrick’s sides and urging him on. It’s so easy to imagine Patrick carefully fingered open, seated on his cock and riding him just like this.

Patrick trails wet kisses along his jaw, then to his neck and the base of his throat. “Still want my mouth? Bet I could make you come this way.”

“Yes,” Jon tells him, closing his eyes to savor the journey in whatever way Patrick chooses. “I want it.”

Patrick chuckles, “Well, which do you mean? My mouth or—” Suddenly he’s gone altogether, jolted upright on top of him. When Jon blinks his eyes open, he sees Patrick’s are wide with alarm.

“Did you hear that?” Patrick asks, glancing around.

Jon barely resists the impulse to whine about the interruption. “Hear what? I don’t hear anything.”

“Because you’re not listening,” Patrick insists, so Jon sits up, too. With Patrick straddling his thighs, it puts them face to face, transforming Jon’s mental image of fucking him like this into something more visceral and intimate.

It doesn’t help his focus. Jon brushes their lips together. All he can think of is continuing what they started, then he hears it, like a faraway whisper in his ear—

_“Aye! Come out the trees now, Pat!”_

_“Pat!”_ the voices call. _“Pat!”_

“Oh,” Jon says, “Someone’s looking for you now.”

“My patrol caught up to us,” Patrick says. “We better get moving. Unless you want company?”

Jon blows out a breath, majorly inconvenienced. “We better get moving.”

So much for time and opportunity.

Jon shifts to get up, and instead of moving off him right away, Patrick throws his arms around Jon’s neck, kissing him once, warm and sweet.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Patrick says.

Jon grins against his mouth, “Maybe I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Patrick says, “By letting me put your dick in my mouth later rather than right away?”

Jon slides his hands over Patrick’s thighs and around to palm his ass, pulling him flush against his lap. Patrick’s hard between them, and it’s satisfying to feel the evidence of how badly they both wanted it, even if they can’t have it right now.

“Maybe that’s not the only place I’ll let you put it,” Jon murmurs, and Patrick groans, a pained, wanting sound, and rests their foreheads together.

“Better get a move on, then.”

+

It’s not curiosity that drives them further north, but common sense. To go east or west would put them at a greater risk of running into their brothers again, and that would complicate things further than Jon’s willing to complicate them for now.

Not that being captured by Wildlings and hand-delivered to Mance Rayder would necessarily make things simpler.

They ride through the Haunted Forest at the steadiest pace they can manage, with Patrick behind him on Lady’s massive back. Patrick winds his arms loosely around Jon’s waist, hides from the wind with his face pressed between Jon’s shoulder blades. Jon enjoys—perhaps too much—the way Patrick forms to him, how he braces himself for uneven terrain with a squeeze, then lets his hands simply rest on Jon’s thighs when things are smooth.

Once in a while, Jon places his hand over Patrick’s, lacing their gloved fingers together until he requires it to hold the reins again. Jon smiles to himself, at all the things they’re doing for the first time, and tries not to think about how badly he wishes they were doing them elsewhere. It’s impossible not to imagine what that might look like back home: Lingering glances across crowded rooms. Tangled fingers hidden beneath tables. Stolen kisses in empty halls.

It’s more than enough to occupy Jon’s mind, and it doesn’t hurt that it’s gorgeous beyond the Wall. Over nearly every hill, there’s something new to see. A river cutting through their path. A stag retreating into a thicket. A sapling snapped and fallen. A cave carved out of the hillside. A squirrel scavenging for food. Even sheltered deep inside the forest, nearly everything is coated in crystal, icy and pure. There are trees twice as round and broad as anything Jon’s ever seen in Westeros, their leaves barely hanging on for dear life against the wind. The Wolfswood near Winterfell holds no candle to the Wild.

It’s quiet out, peaceful in a way Jon rarely feels, in this life or the one he used to have. For a minute, it’s simple to push the rest aside and admire the sun shining through tree branches to the sound of Lady’s feet against the ground.

Until it’s not.

As minutes turn to hours, their lack of direction starts to weigh on him. He considers again what they’ll do wherever they go, and now, he decides, is as good a time as any to figure it out.

“What do you think of Mance Rayder?” Jon remarks. To his own ears, it sounds like he’s asking Patrick to comment on the weather and not a man who could potentially have them killed at any moment.

“I don’t think of him,” Patrick answers, “But I am curious what he wants with you.”

“We don’t actually know if he wants anything at all,” Jon points out.

“You might not know,” Patrick says, “But I heard what I heard.”

And what he heard only bolsters Jon’s fear that Mance knows what the Lannisters want everyone to know.

“What if he thinks I’m responsible for taking those women?” Jon guesses, “Maybe he wants to be the one to watch me hang for it.”

“How about we save the absolute worst possibilities for last?” Patrick proposes. His voice is light with sarcasm, but Jon doesn’t miss the way one arm slides more securely around him under the guise of repositioning on the saddle.

“Master Marsh says Mance wants to use me to start a war with the Night’s Watch,” Jon tries. “Maybe he hopes the Commander will meet him on the field if he has me alive.”

“You think he wouldn’t?” Patrick asks. “You have your differences, but you are his son.”

“I think the only thing stronger than his resentment for me might be his hatred for Wildlings,” Jon reasons, “But Mance has the numbers, so abandoning the Wall would be stupid. I just—I can’t figure out what Mance is after. Castle Black? More territory to the south? Even if he could win a battle against my father, there would be another to follow. He won’t have numbers in the North.”

“Maybe he hasn’t thought that far ahead,” Patrick says, then falls silent, contemplative. Jon thinks he intends to let it drop until, carefully, “What if Mance—”

Patrick pauses for so long, Jon prompts him, “What if Mance what?”

“What if Mance,” Patrick starts again, “were to find himself and ally… who could, maybe, sway the North?”

Jon glances over his shoulder to meet Patrick’s unwavering eyes, fully aware of what he’s suggesting. Unfortunately, Jon’s long and painfully removed from having any influence in the North and bound that way by oath. Hearing Patrick suggest otherwise stirs a longing deep inside him. One for his home and the person he was there, grounded and sure, competent in his position and goals. Sometimes it feels as though being sent to the Wall stripped Jon of more than his titles, like a fundamental piece of him was taken, too.

Even at the height of his leadership, Jon’s not sure he had the power to convince his bannermen to allow Wildlings to march through their land in the first place. He was Warden in the North, not King as Mance calls himself, and he has no idea who exactly’s taken his place at Winterfell or what ending Mance has his sights on.

Still, Jon’s curious what Patrick’s thinking. “Sway the North to what?”

Patrick gives a half smile, dimpled and scheming, then shrugs.

“You’ll have to ask Mance Rayder that.”

Jon thinks he just might.

+

Patrick’s theory replays in his ears as they ride along.

An ally who could sway the North, Patrick said. It implies that Jon could, somehow, return to the North. He can’t help but respark their conversation to settle it.

“By the way,” Jon starts, “I think you’re forgetting that it’s the duty of every Lord in every castle in the Seven Kingdoms to see that my head’s removed should I desert Castle Black, especially to join an army of Wildlings.”

“Would you stop talking about losing your head?” Patrick says, poking him in the ribs. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Not just my head. Yours, too.”

“I think you’re forgetting,” Patrick says, even more carefully than he’d spoken his ideas about Mance, “That you’re the Lord of Winterfell.”

“I’m not,” Jon says, flatly. He replaces both hands on Lady’s reins, eyes straight ahead. “I’m not the Lord of Winterfell.”

“To the North, you _are_ ,” Patrick argues. “I never saw you there, Jon, but I know you. Do you think your men forgot you already? The man who’s led them since he was an eight year old _boy_?”

It grates at him to hear Patrick say things with such conviction, like saying them makes it matter, as if Jon could ever go back. The North doesn’t get to choose and neither do they. If they did, they’d never have come here in the first place.

“Right by your side in these woods, I took an oath,” Jon says, more stilted than he means it, “I’m a brother of the Night’s Watch, and pretending at anything else is an absolute waste of time.”

Patrick’s hands disappear from Jon’s waist. “Then let’s not pretend at anything else.”

“Patrick, that’s not what I—Fuck!”

Jon shuts his mouth, embarrassed and irritated by the turn it all took, too raw to keep talking. With nothing else to do but move, he puts his heels in his horse and urges her onward.

+

After a few hours pass in painful silence, they come to a slow-moving stream and stop to give Lady a drink and stretch their legs. Patrick dismounts, then Jon does the same, letting Lady’s reins hang loose to give her some freedom. Patrick takes advantage of his own, walking away from them and disappearing behind a tree trunk.

Jon stays near the water, squeezing his eyes shut to hide from the tension around them, caught in his chest and making him uncomfortable and achy all over. It stings to bicker with Patrick, particularly about hypotheticals and circumstances only half pieced together. Another first between them, but not the kind he was in a hurry to reach. It spiraled so quickly. He never meant to let his bitterness redirect itself at the last person he would ever want to hurt.

None of what’s happened to him is Patrick’s fault.

Jon counts away in his mind until he’s fairly certain enough time has gone by that he can go look for Patrick without coming off as overbearing. After being stuck together on a horse for hours and hours, it’s understandable that Patrick would want some space, especially after how Jon spoke to him. He sighs, long and full of regrets, and opens his eyes, turning to see Patrick already standing beside him. He startles, then huffs a muted laugh, “You’re always sneaking up on me.”

“Jon, I—”

“Patrick,” Jon breathes out, their words running over each other.

“Me first. Please,” Patrick says, resolved. When Jon doesn’t object, he goes on, “I shouldn’t have pushed you earlier. I understand wanting to leave things in the past. Things you can’t have back or stand to think about. I spent a long time trying to forget who I was, and I’m still trying to forget all the awful things I did once I succeeded."

Unable to stand the vulnerability in Patrick’s voice without comforting him, Jon steps into him, brings his hands up to cradle Patrick’s face.

His blue eyes are soft, sincere. He holds Jon’s wrists as he says, “I didn’t mean to make light of what you’ve lost, Jon. I just wanted you to know they haven’t taken what makes you special. No one can do that.”

“Oh, Patrick,” Jon exhales, Patrick’s words washing over him. He leans in until their foreheads touch, nuzzling their noses. “I didn’t mean to make light of what I’ve gained either. When I said what I said, I didn’t mean you.”

“I know you didn’t,” Patrick assures him, his voice low and soothing.

Jon gives in to the relief of that painful distance between them closing, his muscles unlocking from the tension he held in them all afternoon. He kisses Patrick gently, their mouths meeting and parting as Jon says, “There’s nothing pretend about what we have.”

“I know, Jon,” Patrick says, arms wrapping around his neck and holding him tight. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. What you said, Patrick… Your faith in me is more than I deserve,” Jon tells him. “I got angry at you because I’m still angry about what happened, but I have to stop feeling sorry for myself and use what’s in front of me.”

“How do you mean?” Patrick asks.

“Even if I can’t go back,” Jon starts, “Who’s to stop me from using the possibility that I could as leverage in talks with Mance? I think it’s at least enough to keep him from killing us right away. At most, we could stop him from attacking the Wall.”

“So you want to go and find Mance?” Patrick asks.

“I think we should stay north to Craster’s, and you say they’re looking for me,” Jon says, shrugging his shoulders. “If they find us, they find us.”

“I like where your head’s at,” Patrick says, pressing another kiss to his lips and repeating with a smile, “If they find us, they find us.”

+

Patrick pulls out the map to time their route to Craster’s Keep, chewing on his lower lip in concentration. Jon peeks over his shoulder, distracted by the way Patrick’s curls lay against the back of his neck. He brushes them aside, tangling his fingers in them, then presses his mouth where they were in soft kisses.

“Jon,” Patrick says, “You’re not looking at the map.”

“I know,” Jon agrees, “You’re looking at it, though.”

“Jon,” Patrick repeats, tilting his head to give Jon more of his neck even as his words contradict it, “I’ve got no fucking idea how long we were on that horse for. Feels to me like we should be at the Shivering Sea already.”

Right off the northeastern edge of the continent.

Jon chuckles, “We haven’t made it quite that far, I’m afraid.”

“Exactly,” Patrick says, “So, as good as that feels, you have to look at the map.”

“How good does it feel?” Jon whispers, wrapping his arms around him, pressing a kiss behind his ear.

Patrick gives Jon some of his weight, leaning into him. “Good enough that if you keep going, I might suggest we camp here for the night.”

“Mmm,” Jon hums against his skin, “Very tempting.”

He glances down at the map.

By his estimate, they could make it there inside a day if they push, and so after some deliberation, they decide to, sharing a couple proper kisses and a small bite of food—cured meats with a side of stale bread for Patrick—before setting out again.

The prospect of laying down on a bed keeps Jon’s eyes open as they ride into the night, even when they yearn to drift closed.

He grows jealous of Patrick sleeping peacefully at his back, molded against him with arms around his waist. Jon grips both of Patrick’s hands in one of his, in fear he might let go and fall. It certainly wouldn’t be the most glorifying way to injure oneself out here, and in addition to desperately wanting Patrick unhurt, Jon also _needs_ Patrick unhurt. There’s no predicting what they’ll face, what they’ll have to do to survive. They need each other at their best.

Jon smiles to himself, thinking of what Patrick would say: For him to be at his best, Jon needs to rest, too. He fondly squeezes Patrick’s hands. It’s flattering that Patrick worries for him, probably more so than it should be.

As if on cue, Patrick rouses, hugging him tightly in waking then sliding his hands up Jon’s chest.

“Good morning,” Patrick mumbles around a yawn, despite it being the middle of the night. Then, predictably, “Let’s switch. Your turn to sleep.”

“I was just thinking about you thinking I need to sleep,” Jon says, smiling even wider. It’s satisfying to feel like he’s got a read on Patrick, to learn him more every day.

“Everybody needs to sleep,” Patrick says, “And I need to piss.”

“Charming,” Jon teases, slowing Lady to a halt. “Do you need the lamp?”

“Nah, I know pretty well where my dick is,” Patrick says, smacking a kiss to Jon’s cheek before swinging down from Lady’s back. “We do our best work together in the dark.”

“Is that right?” Jon asks him, laughing.

“That’s right,” Patrick calls, and in no time, he’s back, hoisting himself up with a foot in the stirrup until he’s right in Jon’s face. He swings his leg over to get settled on the saddle. “You’ll see.”

+

They reach Craster’s Keep in the late afternoon the following day, or what Jon believes to be the right place, anyway. It’s not as if there are many to choose from.

From what he’s been told, the Craster lives with his wives and daughters—some of which are, disgustingly, rumored to be both. Fifteen or twenty in total. But there’s no detectable movement inside or out. No clothes hanging from the lines strung between trees nearby. No livestock in the pens. It’s chilling to see the place so desolate when it should be the opposite to sustain a group large as theirs.

“Is anyone there?” Jon yells, and his voice rings in the emptiness of Craster’s Keep, and nothing else comes back in answer.

“This is…” Jon trails off, dismounting after Patrick and looking around as they walk to the front. The place is more like a large barn with lofted living quarters than a house, with a fire pit in the center to heat its bedrooms above.

It’s dusty and dark, too eerily quiet.

Jon doesn’t like it.

“A really big place for just the two of us?” Patrick finishes.

“Not my first thought,” Jon admits, “Where the hell is everybody?”

“Gone out for supper, maybe?” Patrick says, smiling at his own sarcasm, his tongue peeking adorably between his teeth.

“All dead, maybe,” Jon counters, and Patrick’s face shifts from delighted to disturbed in the blink of an eye.

“Pretty morbid assumption. The place looks like it’s been empty for a while. Maybe they just… moved.”

“Unlikely. I don’t have a good feeling,” Jon says. His stomach’s in knots, a steady buzz of adrenalize humming beneath the surface of his skin. There doesn’t seem to be any visible evidence of foul play, but it could’ve easily occurred so long ago that it’s since been erased by the elements, dispersed by other Wildlings or Watchmen picking through the remains of Craster’s storages. It seems like just the kind of thing the Commander would hide from him.

Jon jumps at Patrick’s touch, his hand coming to rest on Jon’s arm, then moving to his shoulder.

“Let’s get inside, then,” Patrick suggests, gently kneading tense muscle, “See if we can find some better feelings for you in there.”

Jon takes a deep breath, blows it out in a steady rush.

He spots a well across the yard.

“I’ll draw some water,” Jon says on impulse, “I want to bathe.”

+

Jon pulls three large buckets from the well, carrying them one at a time over to the fire Patrick quickly built at the center of Craster’s den. It feels good to exert himself, to hoist them up to hang and heat above the flames.

As they wait, Patrick divvies out small portions of the food he packed for them, since Jon’s shit at rationing, or so he’s been informed.

“It’s okay that you’ve never had to,” Patrick tells him, and Jon thinks it backwards that Patrick’s comforting him for having never gone hungry before, but he doesn’t poke at it.

Instead, they eat together in comfortable silence, sitting side by side on split logs near the fire. It’s oddly domestic, and Jon revels in being free with him, in doing their best to make a temporary home out of an old, deserted barn.

When they’re finished, Jon feels it all swallow him whole, a spark in the space between them. He looks over at Patrick and lets out a ragged breath.

“Want to have a bath with me?”

Patrick blinks at him, his lips parting slightly in what Jon earnestly hopes is interest. Coolly, he says, “I could probably use a bath.”

“I know I could,” Jon says, trying to match Patrick’s casual tone, “I think I smell a bit like Lady.”

“You smell completely like Lady,” Patrick replies with a grin, and Jon feels his cheeks start to hurt from the return smile on his face, bumping Patrick’s shoulder with his.

In a moment where he might’ve hidden before, in fear of giving too much away, Jon bares himself, standing and extending his hand to him.

“I want to see you,” Jon says, and Patrick reciprocates with his, lacing their fingers and squeezing.

Patrick says, simply, “Then you will.”

+

Jon carries two buckets of water to the washroom, and Patrick meets him there after a trip to the bedroom, with something in his hands.

“I took some soaps from Maester Aemon,” Patrick boasts, not even bothering to act sheepish about it. He shows him a couple small pieces of fabric. “And these cloths I thought we might need.”

“What did you bring that you didn’t steal from the old man?” Jon asks, setting the buckets down and reaching for the tie on his cloak then the snaps of his riding leathers, tossing them aside once they’re off.

“What did you bring,” Patrick says, watching him closely, followed by an audible swallow, “That you didn’t steal from the Commander? I don’t exactly have a lot to work with at Castle Black.”

“Fair point on both accounts,” Jon admits, then he notes, “You’re falling behind.”

Jon’s down to his undergarments, and Patrick hasn’t removed anything at all.

“Finish for me,” Patrick says, the atmosphere shifting into one that makes Jon’s heart hammer in his chest and his hair stand on his arms, “Then I’ll start for you.”

Jon continues, unhurried, until he’s naked, thrumming with anticipation he can feel from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet. Against his initial impulse, he doesn’t cover himself, Patrick’s gaze on every inch of his body almost as heavy as touch. Jon’s blood boils in his vessels, heat pooling in his belly and spotting his cheeks, the tips of his ears.

“You’re really a lot to look at, you know that?” Patrick tells him, running his tongue over his lips.

“Oh, c’mon,” Jon says, both deflecting and encouraging. He finds he doesn’t mind being seen so much when Patrick’s doing the looking. It makes him feel strong, desirable. Wanted. Still, he’s ready for company in his nakedness. “Water’s going to get cold.”

Patrick holds Jon’s eyes, his fingers deft as they begin to unlace his clothes, parting to reveal an undershirt that he promptly pulls over his head, mussing his hair. He smooths it down with his palms, tucking curls behind his ears. He’s glowing in the lamplight, flickering brightness against porcelain skin. Jon’s never seen him like this, stripped down and open. Instead of standing still to be looked at as Jon did, Patrick takes a cloth and moves to the water, bending to submerge it.

In motion, Jon can better appreciate the flex of his muscles, the shift of his core and the leanness of his thighs as he walks. Months of steady meals and upper body work on the Wall have filled him out, made him harder through his chest and biceps. Jon admires the broadness of his shoulders and back, the way it tapers down to taut waist and the perfect curve of his ass, his unmissable cock hanging there, making Jon's mouth go dry, sending a frisson of intimidation through him at lines not yet crossed in his life.

Jon aches to put his hands on all he sees, to do what he knows despite his curiosities, reaching for Patrick as he rights himself with the soaked cloth. Patrick drags it across Jon’s collarbones, squeezing out the water to rinse him.

Back to the bucket, then to Jon, lingering, again and again.

“Patrick—” Jon’s taken aback by the intimacy of it all, hands trailing up and down Patrick’s sides as Patrick scrubs lightly at his shoulders. He imagines Patrick wet in kind, skin slippery beneath his fingertips. “Let me.”

Jon grabs the second cloth, and they take turns wetting and washing each other thoroughly, a tantalizing back and forth in which hands roam uninhibited. Cleaning off the sweat and grime from days on the road, with actual soap, is a gift, the hot water relaxing his tired body. The fact that Patrick’s doing it for him only drives that warmth deeper, makes it all the more significant and arousing.

Soon, washing and rinsing turn to kissing, standing face-to-face to hold each other. Jon mouths at the join of Patrick’s neck and shoulder and lingers to leave a mark as his fingertips continue their exploration, drifting down Patrick’s back to his ass. He squeezes firmly, pleased by the feel of it bare in his hands. Jon eases his cheeks apart just slightly, tempted to venture between them. Patrick’s dripping wet all over. It would be so simple to run a finger over the place Jon most wants, maybe slip it inside.

He would be gentle, so gentle—

“You can,” Patrick says, as if reading straight from his mind. It must be written on his face, how badly he wants it. “You did promise to fuck me.”

“I did,” Jon confirms. “Is that still what you want?”

Patrick wraps his arms around Jon’s neck, fingers brushing through the hair at his nape. He carefully raises one knee, hitching his thigh up near Jon’s hip. Jon can barely breathe at the suggestion, suddenly feeling completely unprepared for where the moment’s brought them.

“I want you to touch me,” Patrick says, baring himself with more than his words.

In this close, Jon can feel Patrick’s cock hard against him, his own heavy between his legs. He runs an arm beneath Patrick’s thigh to support him, palming his ass, then with his other hand, sets about the glorious task of opening Patrick up with his fingers.

He starts in slow, delicate circles around his rim, beside himself with the way Patrick’s breath catches, the sweet sigh that escapes his lips. Jon applies more pressure, massaging at his hole, feeling that tightness eventually give way until the tip of his finger slips inside.

Patrick clenches around it, his moan echoing in the silence, and Jon's hit with a paralyzing image of what it might feel like for roles to be reversed.

“Fuck,” Jon breathes out, shaken by a jolt of arousal and nerves, taking Patrick’s mouth to distract himself and Patrick from the adjustment, to help them both relax.

“I brought something else,” Patrick reveals. “For this. In our room.”

Jon’s so intensely focused on what he’s doing, on keeping it together, he misses the implication that Patrick’s suggesting they go and get it. He lightly scrapes his teeth against Jon’s neck, finishing in a smacking kiss to command his attention.

“Jon, we should go upstairs.”

“Right, the bedroom, you said,” Jon snaps to, giving Patrick’s ass a farewell squeeze before pulling out his finger and releasing him.

Somehow, Jon summons the control it takes to climb the steps one at a time up to the loft like someone civilized. Not one consumed with desire, scrambling to reach the top to wet his dick.

With Patrick, it’s much more than that, and Jon feels the true weight of that realization when he walks into the room Patrick’s chosen as theirs. It’s barely more than an old, lumpy mattress on the floor, but Patrick’s made the effort to spread one of their blankets across it, layering the other overtop for covering themselves.

There’s a single candle lit by the foot.

Patrick presses a vial into his hand.

Olive oil.

To guide the way inside.

Patrick planned this. Perhaps not for an abandoned Craster’s Keep, but for somewhere. Rifling through the Maester’s chamber, Patrick thought to be with him out here. Jon huffs a breath that comes out shaky, amused, and wholly charmed.

“Let me guess.”

“Please,” Patrick begs, taking hold of him with dark, wanting eyes and kissing him as they make their way to the mattress, “Do not mention that old man right now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jon lies, chuckling against his mouth, crawling forward as Patrick scoots back on the bed. Then, hushed, “I can’t believe you arranged to seduce me so far in advance.”

“You want seduction? Get all the way up here,” Patrick directs from his back, accompanied by a quick nod of his head. “Let me suck you.”

“I—” Jon stutters, “Christ, Patrick, okay.”

He knee-walks over him until the tip of his cock brushes Patrick’s full, bottom lip. Patrick uses his tongue on the head, licking in insistent strokes, until Jon holds steady and guides himself in. Patrick opens up to take some of his length, using his hand on the rest.

Patrick quickly falls into a sloppy, eager rhythm, and Jon drops his head between his shoulders. If Patrick intended to get Jon ready to fuck, he was already desperately there. He’s lost to the extra attention for a moment before he decides he can make more balanced use of his time. He opens the vial, spreads some oil to his fingers, reaching behind him.

“Pull your knees up,” Jon says, and Patrick’s right with him, adjusting to give him room to continue what he started downstairs.

It all happens in heated fragments after that, Jon’s senses overloaded by all he feels and hears and sees. Patrick moans around his cock, and it’s perfect, until Jon wants to chase those moans with his mouth. Patrick’s lips are red, glistening when Jon removes his cock, and he blankets Patrick with his body, gets his hand between them.

One finger, moving, curling inside him with ease, then two, then three.

“Get your dick in me,” Patrick demands, clinging to him.

He pours too much oil on his cock.

Oh well.

The first press inside Patrick is euphoric, slick. Tight, so tight. Jon feels disjointed, separate from reality. Nothing that feels this good could possibly exist in a world where everything’s happened as it has. Jon grows more fevered with every thrust, every kiss that never seems to fully break. Patrick’s fingers dig into his back, tug at his hair, cradle his face in the moments when Jon slows down and time stands still.

He pulls out too far, slips free, sucking in a sharp breath and groaning into Patrick’s neck as he falters, fucking against the groove where his hip meets thigh. Rather than guide himself back in, Patrick does it, leaving his fingers at the place they’re joined.

“Jon, you feel perfect,” Patrick whines, the contrast of his sincerity, the overwrought sound of his voice in the hot silence of the moment like a punch to the gut. “You’re fucking me perfect.”

“Patrick, you’re fucking killing me,” Jon says, speeding the roll of his hips. He gets his hand between them and around Patrick’s cock, and Patrick cries out when Jon hits that spot inside him in time with his strokes, over and over and over.

“I’m going to come,” Patrick repeats, a litany of promises from his mouth until it comes to blinding fruition. Jon sits back to watch, to fuck him through it, to take everything Patrick has for him as he makes a mess between them, even as Jon hangs on by a thread.

The instant Patrick’s spent, beautifully sated and sensitive beneath him, Jon makes to ease out and frantically finish himself off, only to have Patrick urge him deeper, closer, with hands clutching at his back.

“Inside me,” is all Patrick says, voice come-drunk and gravely, dragging Jon down for a filthy kiss.

Jon’s orgasm hits all at once, Patrick words and the tight heat of his ass sending him soaring over the edge with one more thrust inside. His hips jerk with each wave of it, a building and waning of sensation that seems never-ending. The last thing Jon remembers before collapsing into bliss is a voice, one he barely recognizes as his own, calling Patrick’s name.

+

Jon caresses Patrick’s face with gentle fingertips, traces his lower lip. His skin is so soft, too delicate to be in such a dark, disgusting place like Craster’s Keep. Patrick belongs in light, in safety and warmth. Jon wonders, fruitlessly, how he would like Winterfell. They’ll probably never find out. They might not even make it back to the Wall alive.

Wherever they are, in this life or the next, Jon hopes they can have this. Each other. He hopes so fiercely, it threatens to rip him to pieces. Here, what they have feels untouchable, enclosed in a protective bubble of their own. In truth, it’s vulnerable at every turn.

Staring into half-lidded blue eyes, feeling every ounce of what they’ve done in the looseness of his limbs, in the haziness of his thoughts, Jon finds himself talking from his heart—

“Have you ever thought about why men of the Night’s Watch can’t take a wife or start a family?”

“No, but now that you’ve asked, I’m thinking about it,” Patrick says, quiet in his mind. “I guess it would make it easier to stay away, if there’s no one like that back home who misses you.”

“I asked the Commander about it when I was a boy,” Jon starts. “He told me it’s so we will not know love. Because a man who’s known it will always choose it over honor or duty. I think I was six years old, but even at that age, I couldn’t understand how someone would abandon their honor for anything. It was very important to me. My father wasn’t abandoning it for us,” Jon shrugs, then goes on to say, “If you’d asked me the day I came to Castle Black, I would’ve said I still didn’t really understand it, even after my sense of honor and duty landed me there in the first place.”

Jon kisses him tenderly, lips trembling with everything he feels, longing to say in words what he said with his body. He whispers in the space between them, “I understand it now, Patrick. I do.”

“I’ve never been much for honor,” Patrick says, voice shaky with surprise, his smile dimpled, happy. He rakes his fingers through Jon’s hair, then rests his hand against his cheek. “But I know what you mean. I—”

Jon holds his breath, waiting for him to finish.

Patrick says, “Me too, Jon. I’m with you.”

Jon lets it out, full-to-bursting.

+

It’s quiet as they lay together. Nothing stirring but the occasional rustle of leaves outside and the burning crackle of a fire below. Jon’s exhausted physically, emotionally, but he fights sleep, determined to bask in the moment until it’s taken from him.

What is duty, he considers again, in the face of Patrick, breathing soundly in his sleep, atop the warm bed they’ve first made love in? Jon meant what he said. He shoves the constantly buzzing nonsense and worry to the back of his mind, focusing on what’s in his arms.

Jon recalls their road here. The good parts.

The truth, not the lies. The reunion, not the separation. The mending, not the fight.

How it felt to come clean, to hold Patrick in his arms again, to feel Patrick build him up.

Jon thinks about what else Patrick said to him by that stream in the middle of the Haunted Forest, about understanding the need to shed a former self and become who you have to be to survive. Jon thought that meant locking away every part of who he used to be for the pain of losing it all. He realizes now that things are different, not lost completely. He’s changed, but still remains the same.

Light can be found in the darkest of places.

He wonders what that meant for Patrick, about all that made him who he is.

“Jon,” Patrick mumbles, nuzzling into his chest in waking, “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Just thinking,” Jon replies, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s hair.

“Want to tell me what about?” Patrick asks. The yawn that follows suggests he might not be conscious to hear it, but Jon appreciates the gesture, anyway.

“Us,” Jon says. “You.”

“Oh, boy,” Patrick says, huffing a sleepy laugh, “A slippery slope. What about me, exactly?”

“Just what you said yesterday, about trying so hard to forget who you were. I wondered why, that’s all. You’re so…private about your past, and I know I have no right to ask after how I reacted about my own, I just—” Jon struggles through how to ask what it is he wants to know. “I’m very fond of who you are, so I wonder if it stuck? The forgetting?”

“More like…” Patrick starts, drawing in a deep breath, “The two reconciled, who I was and who I became, and now here I am. I’m not sure I ever really forgot, I just—” He blows it out in a rush, says, “I was fifteen. All I knew was death and dying. My mother. My little sister. My father, in every way that mattered. Sevardi.”

“Sevardi?” Jon says.

The man who taught Patrick to fight.

“He was killed at King’s Landing during the rebellion against King Robert,” Patrick reveals, his voice shaken, “And I lost it. I left Westeros on a ship bound for Braavos.” Patrick stiffens in his arms at the mention of it, and continues, “Then I went to Dorne for a while, then back to King’s Landing after my sisters. When I got there and got arrested, I cursed every god under the fucking sun, wishing I’d just stayed gone forever. Then I got to the Wall, and—”

“And?” Jon asks, both pained by Patrick’s honesty and painfully curious at the rest of it.

“I found you,” Patrick says, lifting his head from Jon’s chest to look at him, “And you make me forget all the bad things that happened better than any foreign city ever could.”

“Patrick,” Jon murmurs, drawing him closer with a hand to the back of his neck. He brushes their lips together, whispering, “I’m so sorry.”

Patrick slides his leg over Jon’s waist to straddle his thighs, breathes out, “Don’t be sorry. Just kiss me,” and captures Jon’s mouth.

+

“Rise ‘n shine, lover boys!”

Jon startles awake, eyes flying open in the bright light of morning. He expects to see Craster and ten of his wives circled around them, angry that one of their beds has been thoroughly fucked in. Instead, Jon sees Patrick in a similar predicament: startled, naked and defenseless, with nothing but a blanket between them. It’s unfamiliar territory for Patrick, Jon imagines, being snuck up on rather than doing the sneaking himself.

The disturbed look on his face might feel more rewarding if their lives weren’t at stake.

Their intruders are large, dressed in animal skins, and armed with bows and arrows and swords with strips of fraying leather woven around their hilts. Two of them—a massive, bearded man with chaotic eyes and a woman half his height—have hair kissed by fire, red as flames.

Wildlings.

Jon wonders if these are the ones Patrick tracked. He glances over at him with widening eyes, trying to ask as much without words. An almost-imperceptible nod of Patrick’s head says, yes, they’re the same, and Jon feels momentarily comforted by the fact that Patrick’s patrol survived its encounter with them.

“Aye, put some clothes on, would ya?” the giant redhead says. “Nobody wants to see your tiny crow cocks.”

“One crow and a little lord, don’t forget,” the woman amends, and it makes Jon cringe harder than when Patrick relayed it to him secondhand. She goes on, “Takin’ the huddlin’ for warmth thing a bit far, don’t ya think?”

“Oh, these two’ve been doin’ more than huddlin’,” another man suggests. He’s thin as a rail, with a long, skinny neck and sunken eyes. He adds, “Smells like sex in here.”

She bristles at the idea, raising her eyebrows in shock, as if somehow it never crossed her mind. “No way, Orell! Not a man pretty as this one. Be a cryin’ shame.”

Her eyes are trained on Patrick, and Jon narrows his, unamused.

“Did you know your travelin’ companion is the Lord of Winterfell?” she asks him.

“ _Was_ the Lord of Winterfell,” Jon interjects, “And, yes, of course he knows.”

“I also know you’re looking for him unharmed,” Patrick adds. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have been so easy to find. I tracked the lot of you. You’re not that stealth.”

Jon blinks at him, more than a little floored by his boldness, since he does not, in fact, know they’re looking for Jon unharmed _at all_ , until—

“Watch your mouth, crow. Not lookin’ for _you_ unharmed,” the giant redhead says, and Jon slowly lets out the breath he was holding. It’s good for them now, even if all it means is Mance wants Jon alive only to kill him himself.

However— “You _are_ looking for him unharmed,” Jon corrects, the threat of violence implicit, “If you’re looking to keep any peace with me.”

The very last thing Jon expects is support, and yet…

“Aye! Don’t be threatenin’ him, Tormund,” the woman seconds, scolding, then to Patrick, “Certainly won’t be hurtin’ you, unless you’re into that sort of a thing. What’s your name?”

“Pat,” he says. “And yours?”

Jon doesn’t miss that everyone else is invited to call him that. Kris, this woman—

“Ygritte,” she provides.

— _Ygritte_.

“Is it true?” she asks. “You bend over for the Lord of Winterfell?”

“ _Ex_ -Lord of Winterfell,” Jon barks, realizing once it’s out of his mouth that it’s an admission. Not that he would ever deny Patrick to a bunch of Wildlings in the woods.

His words ring in brief, awkward silence.

The corner of Patrick’s mouth lifts into a small smile.

“What a pity. Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen, and you talk like you’ve got a nice cock between your legs,” Ygritte says, wistful. “Let me know if you ever want some place good to stick it.”

“What makes you think I’ve got no place good to stick it?” Patrick asks her, with a curious tilt of his head and a quick glance at Jon. “Safe to say you haven’t seen the ex-Lord of Winterfell’s ass, then.”

“ _Patrick,_ ” Jon hisses under his breath, cheeks blushing red. It's not as if he hasn't thought about it, but he would rather stick knives in his ears than hear Ygritte’s response to that.

“I know I’ve got _more_ places to stick it,” Ygritte argues, “Hotter, _wetter_ places—"

“That’s more than enough of all that, I think,” Jon says flatly, then to the one she called Tormund, “My brother is likely acting as Lord of Winterfell, but I do have information for Mance.”

“The King Beyond the Wall,” Tormund says, deliberately, “has information for you.”

“Take us to him, then,” Jon says.

“As you wish,” Tormund mocks with a little bow and exaggerated, false subservience in his voice.

It doesn’t matter, but Jon blurts the question without thinking—

“During the raid on Patrick’s patrol, you were after me, and now. How did you know what I look like? Who I am?”

Tormund narrows his eyes. “I would hardly call that a raid. No one even died.”

“Call it whatever you want,” Jon dismisses. “How did you know?”

After a calculated pause, Tormund says, “Only an idiot can’t tell the difference between a crow and a lord. Now get dressed. We’re meeting Mance at the Fist.”

+

The march downstairs is humiliating.

In their haste to get to bed the night before, they left their clothes on the floor of the washroom. Nothing to do but go down and get them now. Against Ygritte’s suggestion to make the trip naked, they wrap themselves in their covers and shuffle down the steps with an audience behind them.

Jon mutters under his breath, “Quite the statement you made back there.”

Patrick squints at him. “What? About your ass?”

“I mean, yes, that, but—‘I know you’re looking for him _unharmed_ ,’” Jon quotes. “You didn’t know.”

“Well, they didn’t kill my patrol because they were looking for you,” Patrick reasons, “So I figured they wouldn’t kill you because they were looking for you, either. I wanted them to admit it.”

“Very clever,” Jon says, “And if they’d been looking to kill _only_ me?”

“I guess they probably would’ve tried no matter what I said then, yeah?” Patrick shrugs his shoulders. “It’s worked out, hasn’t it?”

Patrick’s smile is slow to his mouth, the curve of it smug in his rightness. Jon wonders what it says about him that he’s utterly charmed. He smiles back despite himself, shaking his head.

“For now.”

+

“Jon, what about what you said earlier?” Patrick says, vaguely accusatory, hours and hours into their journey.

Strangely, they weren’t tied up, disarmed or blindfolded, or made to walk behind the horses in chains. They ride north to the Fist of the First Men as they rode into Craster’s Keep: one close behind the other on Lady’s back. It’s all oddly…civil, but Jon tries to put his mind at ease, to focus on the steps of his horse and the man behind him, safe and whole.

“What did I say exactly?”

“You have a brother?” Patrick clarifies, nudging him in the center of his lower back, between their bodies where no one’s likely to see. He’s carefully kept his hands to himself since they set out, a stark change from the days before. While Jon craves his affection, Patrick’s commitment to privacy is endearing, in a way. What they have is theirs alone. It gives deeper meaning to every touch with an audience, every moment when Patrick just can’t help himself.

“You’ve been thinking about that this whole time,” Jon starts, “And you’re only just saying something?”

It would’ve been nice to break up Ygritte’s chatter earlier in the day. Unfortunately, Patrick’s been too busy jawing back and forth with her.

“And so what?” Patrick says. “Why didn’t I know you have a brother? You know that I have sisters…”

At the sullen sound of his voice, Jon regrets that it never came up before. He turns to look at him, partly expecting Patrick’s bottom lip to be quivering in a pout. Jon hid who he was for months and Patrick never sounded so upset about it. It’s a testament, Jon realizes, to just how much his own sisters mean to him.

“It wasn’t on purpose, Patrick,” Jon tells him. “It’s just—” He lowers his voice, “I haven’t thought much about David, to be honest. He was always leaving Winterfell, traveling around the Iron Islands, visiting Father—”

“You don’t have to talk so quiet,” Ygritte interrupts. “Everyone’s interested.”

“Not me,” Orell objects.

“Or me, really,” Tormund says. “Maybe a little.”

“It’s not exactly everyone’s business, is it?” Jon says. It’s not something he likes to harp on. Thinking about David means thinking about home and how he got some semblance of a relationship with their father, while Jon was only ever the next Toews in line to hold Winterfell. He never had the responsibilities Jon did, his ties to their home nearly as loose as the Commander’s. Jon hadn’t seen him in weeks before he left for King’s Landing.

“Depends on who you ask,” Ygritte says, then, without so much as a breath more in reprieve, “Are you the grumpiest lord in the Seven Kingdoms?”

Jon takes a deep breath for himself, blows it out, tired of having old wounds picked at and arguing about who he is or isn’t with people who won’t listen. He feels Patrick’s hand come to rest on his hip, a silent reminder of his presence through the chaos. He wants Patrick’s arms around him.

“Depends on who you ask,” Jon repeats.

“What if I ask—” She brings her hand to her chin in thought, then, predictably, points to Patrick. “What say you?”

The part of Jon that wants to hear what Patrick has to say wins out over the part that doesn’t want him to answer anything Ygritte asks of him.

“I say,” Patrick starts, “No, he isn’t.”

“But you do agree he’s grumpy a lot?” Ygritte presses. “I’ve known him eight hours, and he’s been that way the whole time.”

“He’s only grumpy when he’s pushed to be,” Patrick says, “Or hasn’t slept enough.”

Jon chuckles to himself, eyes going fondly skyward. “You just had to say that, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did,” Patrick says, “Because it’s true.”

“Isn’t that just sickeningly adorable?” Ygritte teases.

“What is it, Ygritte?” Jon asks her, trying to maintain some civility in his tone even as he’s nearing the end of his rope. “Is it because we’re both men you keep going on about it?”

“No!” She double-takes at his words, appalled by the suggestion. “You’ll only find people who care about that kind of a thing _south_ of the Wall,” Ygritte argues. “I don’t care where you put your cock, handsome.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just,” Ygritte starts, letting out a dreamy sigh, “I want to make little blonde-headed babies with him. You can’t give him babies.” She perks up, as if she’s just found the key to winning her argument— “He can’t give ‘em to you either, and you’re the Lord of Winterfell! Isn’t havin’ sons supposed to be important to ya?”

“Ygritte, c’mon,” Patrick admonishes, while everyone else chuckles, Jon assumes, at the shade of red his own face is turning.

“The whole conversation started about my brother, didn’t it?” Jon asks, speaking slowly. “So it only matters if someone can give _him_ a son, since _he_ holds Winterfell.”

“You think you know, Jon Toews,” Ygritte says, narrowing her bright green eyes. “You don’t.”

Annoyingly ominous.

The wind howls, shakes through the forest, carrying Jon’s long suffering sigh away with it.

+

When it’s too dark to see, they stop to make camp. For the Wildlings, that means building a fire and dragging up logs to form a tight circle around it.

Jon wonders where they’ll all sleep, and as he and Patrick finish assembling their tent, he decides to ask. In answer, Tormund looks up to the trees canopied overhead, and Jon blinks at him. The notion of falling asleep balanced precariously between some fucking branches is, in a word, incomprehensible.

“We should all be sleeping at Craster’s,” Patrick gripes, plopping down on one of the logs. Ygritte wastes no time sitting next to him, taking up the space that was meant for Jon. “We had shelter there,” he adds, then, wistfully, “And a bed. If Mance was coming this way as it was—”

“Oh, quit your bitchin’, won’t ya?” Tormund says. “I’m sure your little lord crow will see that you’re warm enough.”

Jon groans internally, wishing Tormund would have spared him that, because right on cue, Ygritte groans externally. After a full day of her pursuing Patrick with a fervor Jon’s not accustomed to seeing, poking and prodding at anything and everything, he’s ready to pull his hair out.

He ignores her and the way she shifts closer to Patrick around the fire. He ignores how Patrick’s started to smile at her more throughout the day and into the night, growing less irritated and more amused. He ignores the insecurities that threaten to bubble up from deep inside and choke him—ones he didn’t even know he had.

He talks with Tormund, because it’s more palatable than listening to them.

“Speaking of Craster on another matter entirely,” Jon diverts, “What… happened? The place was just—”

“Dead?” Tormund provides, simply.

“Are you saying Craster’s dead or the place was?”

“Both,” Tormund answers.

“How?” Jon asks, a bit taken aback, saddened and vindicated all the same that his unfortunate suspicions turned out to be true. “The women, too?”

“Who’s to say?” Tormund shrugs, looking skyward. “Craster’s a little rough ‘round the edges for most people’s…delicate sensibilities, so I’m sure he had enemies out there. Somewhere.”

“So you don’t know what happened to them?” Jon repeats, unsure if there was an actual answer in his rambling.

“Who’s to say?” Tormund repeats.

“You are,” Jon says, impatient. “If you know, you know. If you don’t, you don’t.”

Tormund shrugs again. “Bring it up with Mance.”

Jon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Seems your king and I have a lot to discuss.”

“Aye,” Tormund seconds, “You do.”

The silence stretches, and despite Jon’s best efforts, Ygritte’s grating voice pierces his ears, dropping him in the middle of a conversation he wanted no part of. Tormund starts talking again, but Jon can’t hear a word he says for the noise.

“But you’ve been with a woman before?” Ygritte asks him.

Jon freezes, holds his breath.

“Yes,” Patrick answers.

“And you liked it?” Ygritte asks.

Jon feels guilty listening in, but in his own defense, they’re sitting just one log over, and Ygritte’s probably never conducted a quiet conversation in her life. He tells himself it’s only curiosity. Nothing more. Jon’s been with women and liked it. It’s not a crime. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Mostly,” Patrick says, noncommittal. “Depends on the woman.”

Reasonable.

“I want to see about the next time,” Ygritte offers, “About breakin’ some vows you took.”

“Ygritte—”

Patrick laughs—laughs!

“Ygritte,” he repeats, more serious after composing himself, “Listen, I like women. I like men. But I like Jon more than anyone else. It’s more than physical, I—”

“Fine!” Ygritte stops him. “I didn’t realize you were in looove with him.”

She makes a gagging sound, and Jon fights a smile.

“Take it easy,” Patrick deflects, but Jon can hear an admission in his voice. “I didn’t say all that.”

Ygritte scoffs, “Didn’t ya, though?”

“Toews!” Tormund shouts, bringing Jon back to attention. Patrick and Ygritte, too. “I just sat and told you all about Craster, and you missed every single word.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jon says, rolling his eyes, “You did not.”

“You’re right,” Tormund admits, “I didn’t.”

Jon huffs a laugh. It’s unfortunate, but his mind turns to the Commander. If he could see what’s going on here, he would combust. It’s not nearly camaraderie they share, but something akin to it. Another element of the growing disconnect between what Jon’s been taught about Wildlings and what he’s seen of them. Aside from having no manners whatsoever and being supremely inappropriate and infuriating—which could be very specific to Ygritte, he’ll admit—Jon can’t see them as anything other than what they are: Human beings, forced to live beyond the Wall they were born behind, hunted by men who live on the other side… He wonders who struck first blood between them, all those years ago.

“This is unusual, isn’t it?” Jon muses. “Me, you, all of us, just sitting around the fire for chat. I should be long dead by now. Why am I not, Tormund?”

“Good question,” Orell says, piping up for the first time in a while. Jon preferred him quiet.

Tormund smiles, an amused and menacing thing. “King’s orders.”

Jon stares at him, an inkling of danger he hasn’t wholly felt since they were caught at Craster’s Keep creeping through him. King’s orders are all that separates them from violence. Under normal circumstances, it probably would’ve been long decided by bow and sword who survived. The peace of the day blinded Jon from the weight of that truth, the impact of a long tradition of squabbling. The tension spikes inside him, then the only voice Jon wants to hear for the rest of the night breaks through it:

“Jon,” Patrick says, hand squeezing gently at the back of his neck. It’s the first time Patrick’s touched his skin since the night before. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” Jon answers, clearing his throat. “Just telling Tormund what an informative conversation this has been.”

“Aye, maybe his conversation with Ygritte,” Tormund snitches, “Since that’s mostly what you’ve been listenin’ to.”

“Thank you for clearing that up” Jon says, standing. “And on that note, I think I’ll see myself to bed.”

He walks away without a backward glance, trusting King’s orders to see them both through the night.

+

Jon’s horizontal, staring at the ceiling of their tent when Patrick opens the flap and enters, bringing a sharp gust of chilling wind and a dusting of snow with him.

He says, disbelieving, “I know you’re not already sleeping.”

“I’m not,” Jon confirms, turning over to watch Patrick strip down to as few layers as he can stand.

“Good,” he says, sliding under the blanket, “Because I was going to wake you up for this—” Patrick kisses him, close-mouthed and lingering, a firm press of lips in which Patrick breathes him in, then another press, softer. “Been wanting to do that all day,” he confesses, “After they ruined our morning.”

“Yours, especially,” Jon says. “Wonder what had you sleeping so heavy they managed to sneak up on you?”

“Hmm...” Patrick smiles against his mouth. “I wonder.”

Jon’s mind happily drifts there… To thoughts of being inside him, to the sounds from Patrick’s mouth and how it felt to put his cock there, too. More than that, parts of Jon stirred that had never been touched before. It’s as if the planet shifted, redefining his life in moments before and since being with him.

They hold each other close, kissing when they feel like it. Jon finds he’s warmer when their mouths meet, when Patrick’s hands are moving over him, gripping his ass in ways that make him contemplate all sorts of things.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Patrick finally asks.

“Of course you can,” Jon says.

Patrick whispers, “I never wanted to leave Craster’s Keep.”

Jon tightens his arms around Patrick, wishing with everything inside him that he could will them there again and hold off the world, anything that would threaten them.

“Maybe we could go there,” Jon suggests, dreaming out loud. “After all this is settled.” If it’s settled in a way that finds them both living, he doesn’t say. “Fix it up, run away from the Wall whenever we want.”

Patrick asks, conspiring, “Will we steal a new horse every time or keep trying for Lady?”

“My father would lose his mind,” Jon says. “All the more reason to do it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Patrick replies, tucking his head beneath Jon’s chin and nuzzling into his neck. It’s his preferred place to sleep to combat the cold, Jon’s learning, and he loves it, even if Patrick’s curls tickle his face in the night. He wraps his arms around him to help keep warm. Tormund was right about that part.

After a while, Jon murmurs, “Can I tell you a secret now?”

“Mhm,” Patrick hums, a drowsy, contented sound.

“I like you more than anyone else, too,” Jon whispers, a confession in more ways than one.

Quietly, Patrick answers, with a smile in his voice and a sweet press of lips to the base of Jon’s throat, “I hoped so.”

+

Jon wakes just before dawn, fighting the overwhelming urge to toss and turn. He doesn’t want to disturb Patrick sleeping soundly beside him, so he stews in his restless energy, allowing it to build and fester.

They have another half day of traveling ahead of them. Maybe more. Tormund won’t say one way or the other beyond a dismissive, “few hours” estimate, even after a few hours come and go many times over. Jon discovered that slowly, painfully the day before, and he imagines today will bring much the same, so he’ll save himself the annoyance of asking.

All Jon can do is squirm on the back of his horse and face what’s ahead of him. He wants to get moving. At this point, not knowing what’s going to happen is nearly worse than the prospect of being killed in the middle of the woods. That would surely quiet the thoughts banging around in his head.

But what he wants is to live, to take whatever life he can get and spend it with the man beside him, who has, remarkably, given Jon his trust. That’s what the Commander said the day he was named to the Stewards and Patrick the Builders. It’s about the man next to you.

Jon wants that man to be Patrick, always.

He stirs without sound, nudging closer to Jon.

“Patrick,” he whispers softly, brushing his fingers through sleep-ruffled curls. Patrick grunts in response.

“It’s time to get up,” Jon says.

“It’s not,” Patrick objects. “What’s your hurry?”

Jon sighs, answering with nerves in his voice, “I’m tired of not knowing… If Mance means to kill me, if he doesn’t, what else it is he knows. I’m just—”

“I know, Jon,” Patrick says. “But for what it’s worth, I think there’s more to this than Mance just wanting you dead, and I think you think that, too. You’re just—”

“I know,” Jon admits. His mother told him once that fear is a natural sign of investment. Fear for his people, his family. Fear of letting them down or making a wrong choice. A fundamental part of caring about something is being afraid to lose it or fuck it up, but he must use it, rather than let it use him. He swallows hard. “I am."

“I’m with you,” Patrick tells him, propping up to look at him. “No matter what.”

Jon leans in to kiss him, once. “Patrick—” And again. “If things do go…wrong today, I just want you to know—”

“No,” Patrick says, pressing their mouths together again, harder. His hand fists in Jon’s hair until it pulls at the root. “You’re not doing that. Today is not going to be that. You didn’t let the Commander send me to Eastwatch, and you aren’t going to let Mance kill us. They took your title, Jon, but Tormund’s right. Ygritte’s right—”

He presses a firm hand to Jon’s heart, and Jon finds it hard to breathe. Patrick finishes, “You were born for this. Convince Mance like you convinced Robert to make you Warden in the North. We can use this to our advantage.”

“You ever wonder if you have too much faith in me?” Jon asks, dropping his eyes.

Patrick dips his head to make Jon look at him again, cupping his face.

“Not for a second.”

+

As they near the Fist of the First Men, trees give way for mountains, covered in ice and frost as far as the eye can see. It’s bright enough to be a nuisance, what little sun that shines reflecting off powdery white snow and glassy surfaces.

The horses struggle, losing their footing more easily, stumbling dangerously. Jon sees now why Wildlings don’t use them and all the reasons they prefer the Frostfangs to the Haunted Forest. Watchmen stick out like sore thumbs in their black cloaks, while Wildling furs and skins blend right in with the snow and icy rock.

“Nowhere to hide out here,” Patrick notes.

“Don’t need to hide when you’re already in the company of the people who want you dead,” Jon says.

Tormund chuckles. “Way more things out here want you dead than just the Free Folk, Lord Crow. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Patrick abandons his reservations of yesterday, wrapping his arms tightly around Jon’s waist out of necessity and, perhaps, some degree of what Jon was feeling in their last moments alone together. That invisible string that connects them feels wrapped around him, too, holding him up and making him stronger than he would be alone.

Finally, they reach the top of a steep ridge, and Jon’s mouth falls open just slightly at the sight of what’s below.

The Fist itself isn’t reachable on horseback, the slick, jagged slopes to the top of its hill hard enough to climb on foot. All that remains of it now is a circle of ancient rock where a fort used to be—the fort of the First Men.

That’s not what has Jon’s attention, though.

The valley below the Fist is lined with tents, hundreds and hundreds of them, stretching as far as Jon can see. Free Folk, everywhere.

Mance’s army.

Jon’s initial estimate puts them at ten or fifteen thousand. If they get through the Wall, the Watch is finished. Mance wanted him to know that, to arrive and see it, and Jon does.

Still, the Wall remains.

“Seven fucking hells,” Patrick breathes out, “That’s a lot of Wildlings.”

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, gorgeous,” Ygritte says. “I’ll protect you from the big bad Wildlings.”

“I’m not afraid,” Patrick says, then to Jon in reminder, almost undetectably, “I’m with you.”

Jon knows that, too.

He’s ready.

+

Mance’s tent is distinctly larger than the rest, as a king’s always is. As they approach, the sea of Free Folk parts to make a path for them, growing more militant as they near its opening.

Their collective whispers jumble together, with one prevailing call.

“Crow. Crow? Crow. Crow!”

“ _Crow?_ ”

“ _Crow!_ ”

“CROW!”

The voices sound angry, disgusted. Others hold more curiosity than hate, like he and Patrick are perhaps the first ones they’ve ever seen, and they aren’t what was imagined. Jon knows the feeling.

“Get off your horse,” Tormund instructs them. “No one’ll touch you. Yet.”

They do as they’re told with moderate hesitation despite Tormund’s feeble attempt at reassurance, Patrick first then Jon. He holds his breath as they complete the walk and Tormund pulls back the tent’s flap, stepping inside. Jon follows, sees a man sitting comfortably behind a wooden table that Ygritte and Tormund move to flank. He looks unassuming enough, with dark eyes, graying hair parted down the middle, and a scar that cuts through his upper lip. He straightens in his seat, and Jon feels his energy shift from casual to authoritative.

“Jon Toews,” Mance greets him, “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Not for too long, I hope,” Jon answers. He won’t kneel unless forced to, but he’ll respect Mance’s kingship to a degree. He gives a subtle bow. “Your Grace.”

Ygritte giggles. Tormund belly laughs. Mance chuckles to himself, a smile lingering on his weathered face that crinkles his eyes at the corners. “I’m afraid that doesn’t suit me much. Mance’ll do.”

“Mance it is, then,” Jon complies.

“Who’s this in your company?” Mance asks.

“Pat,” Patrick provides. Pat, again. “Of King’s Landing.”

“Do you trust Pat of King’s Landing, Jon Toews?” Mance asks. “There will be sensitive matters discussed here today.”

“Jon will do,” Jon says, “And with my life, I trust him.”

“Very well. I’d’ve thrown him out if you’d said anything else,” Mance says, waving them to sit down in the two chairs opposite him. His tone is oddly conversational. “We started to think you weren’t going to come out from behind the Wall.”

“Who’s we?” Jon asks.

“We’ll get to that in time,” Mance says. “Tormund tells me you have information. I’m interested.”

“About your women,” Jon confirms.

“They’re not my women,” Mance gently amends. “They are each their own. By choice, they follow me. By choice, I lead them. We all have choices to make.”

At this point, Jon could write a book on the indirectness of Wildlings. He’s unwilling to be quite so vague.

“Joffrey Baratheon is behind their disappearances. By a stolen ship from the Iron Fleet, he had them brought to King’s Landing.”

“What if I told you that wagons of women were also drawn down the King’s Road?” Mance poses. “Through the North, right past Winterfell, and out the other end, all the way to King’s Landing?”

It’s amazing that Jon recalls it, the whisper of a memory that drifts through his mind. It wasn’t that long ago, back at Castle Black, but his thoughts were elsewhere, his attention scattered during training.

A wagon with a broken axle, with blonde hair caught in a splintered spoke, taken between his fingers and let go into the wind. Jon wonders how long he neglected to see what was right in front of him.

Master Marsh spoke of the Commander’s guilt. It this part of it? He can't bring himself to think it.

“If I had known of that, or of any man who knew of it without stopping it, he would’ve hanged. Slavers hang in Westeros.”

“Which is why you’re still alive,” Mance says, “If I thought you had anything to do with it, you’d already be dead, Jon. I know all about that evil little twat down in King’s Landing.” Mance’s eyes drift away, looking through him. “He took something from me.”

“I thought the women weren’t yours?” Patrick questions.

“One of them was,” Mance clarifies, pain clear in his voice, gripping Jon by the throat. “My wife. Lylyanna.”

“I—” Jon starts and stops. He resists the compulsion to glance to his side, to allow what he would be feeling if someone took Patrick from him to color his focus. “I’m sorry.”

“He took something from you, too,” Mance says.

“He did,” Jon nods. Everything, apart from the one thing he’s found since.

Mance asks, “Do you want it back?”

Jon blinks at him. “What kind of question is that? Don’t we all want back the things we’ve lost?”

“Aye, then how about this?” Mance starts. “Do you think your people are happy with their Warden on the Wall and a Lannister on the Iron Throne?”

“A _Lannister?_ ” Jon replies, unable to hide the confusion from his face. “Their Houses are joined by the marriage of Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon. A Lannister is Hand of the King, but Joffrey Baratheon is… a Baratheon.”

“Is he?” Mance asks, raising an eyebrow. He gestures to Ygritte in the corner, and she brings out a book, thick and leather-bound, with pages that look centuries old, and plops it on the table with an ominous thud.

On the cover, it reads: _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms._

“Go on,” Mance urges, “There are two Great Houses marked. Have a look. Start from the back.”

Jon opens to last marked page: the Lannisters, dating back for years and years. Lannister after Lannister until he reaches the present…
    
    
     _Tywin Lannister, blue of eye, blonde of hair._
      _Joanna Lannister, blue of eye, blonde of hair._
      _Jaime Lannister, blue of eye, blonde of hair._
      _Cersei Lannister, blue of eye, blonde of hair._
      _Tyrion Lannister, blue of eye, blonde of hair._

Jon flips to the next, unsure of what he’s looking for but looking just the same.

The Baratheons, dating back even further than the Lannisters, to the present.
    
    
     _Steffon Baratheon, brown of eye, black of hair._
      _Cassana Baratheon, brown of eye, black of hair._
      _Robert Baratheon, brown of eye, black of hair._
      _Stannis Baratheon, brown of eye, black of hair._
      _Renly Baratheon, brown of eye, black of hair._

Robert’s father, mother, younger brothers. Then, it’s as if the words jump off the page:
    
    
     _Joffrey Baratheon, blue of eye, blonde of hair._
      _Myrcella Baratheon, blue of eye, blonde of hair._
      _Tommen Baratheon, blue of eye, blonde of hair._

Jon hears the quiet gasp escape his own mouth. He glances over at Patrick, looking on beside him, his expression unreadable, then back to Mance.

“Are you saying…?” Jon trails off, suddenly unbalanced, unhinged. “It can’t be. How?”

“Yes, Jon,” Mance starts, leaning forward to finish:

“Joffrey Baratheon is bastard, not a king, and the North knows it. _Everyone_ knows it.”

+

Jon’s head is swimming. He leans back in his chair, hands gripping the arms of it to steady himself. Beside him, Patrick’s eyes are trained on Mance, as if he’s studying him to learn some truth beyond the words from his mouth.

“Do you have questions for me?” Mance asks.

“Yes,” Jon says, “What the _fuck_?”

Mance huffs a laugh. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“With all due respect,” Jon starts, “You expect me to walk in here and take it on your word alone that Joffrey Baratheon is a bastard son of incest? Cersei and the Kingslayer are twins, for gods’ sake.”

“Would it make it better for you if they were just regular brother and sister?” Tormund asks. “You lot draw the line only at twins in the North?”

“Seems sorta pointless to nitpick among siblings, if you’ve already gone that far,” Ygritte adds.

“Oh, fuck _off_ ,” Jon groans. “I want an answer. Where did you get this book, anyway? _Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms_? What did you do? Rob the Citadel?”

“The Grand Maester’s Library at King’s Landing,” Mance amends, much to Jon’s surprise.

“And how did _you_ get it?” Jon presses.

“Your rightful king brought it to me,” Mance says. “Renly Baratheon.”

“Renly?” Jon asks. The supplier of horses and saddles. “The rightful king, indeed.” He fights the urge to roll his eyes. Jon’s met Renly, more than once. He likes Renly. When Jon was named Warden in the North at fifteen, Renly kissed him on the mouth in the courtyard at Winterfell. They were high on the victories of war, having just survived the Second Rebellion. It’s stupid to think of it now for how little it matters. Jon will not get involved in a squabble between brothers, choosing sides when there’s only one side to choose. “If Joffrey’s a bastard, then Stannis is next in line. He’s older.”

“Stannis is dead,” Mance reveals, and Jon recoils from the words, the severity of the situation suddenly bashing him in the face. “He died storming King’s Landing for the Throne. Does your father tell you nothing on the Wall?”

“Nothing,” Jon says. There’s no use in refuting it. Ygritte was right. Jon doesn’t know anything.

“You asked if you were expected to take only my word,” Mance says, “You’re not.”

He produces a scroll from a sack beside him, sliding it across the table to Jon.

It’s sealed with the sigil of House Baratheon. Jon breaks it, opening the scroll to find a handwritten letter:
    
    
     _Lord Toews,_
    
      _I hope this finds you well. On behalf of House Baratheon and the Crown, I extend my deepest apologies for the injustices committed against you. I assure you, your innocence is known. The Lannisters must be stopped, and I intend to make them pay for all they’ve done. For killing both my brothers. For deceiving Westeros with a false, bastard king. In exchange for your assistance in the pursuit of my rightful place on the Iron Throne, the North is yours. It’s always been yours. Sort it out with Mance. Do what you must to get through the Wall. Call your bannermen._
    
      _Your watch has ended, Jon Toews. If again, you won’t heed my advice, listen to your mother._
    
      _We’ll assemble in the Stormlands._
    
      _Renly_

Followed by a second Baratheon seal, stamped firmly into paper.

Wordlessly, Jon hands the scroll to Patrick.

“My mother?”

“You asked how we knew what you looked like,” Tormund says, pulling a tattered piece of paper from his coat. He tosses it on the table.

Jon unfolds it and flattens its creases, floored at what he sees: A small portrait of himself, undoubtedly drawn by his mother’s own hand. He turns it over, and on the back, it reads, simply:
    
    
      _Come home, my son. The North awaits you._
    

“I…” Jon starts, stuffing the paper in his pocket. “I need a minute to think.”

“Jon,” Patrick says, beseeching, gripping at his knee. “What’s there to think about?”

“He’s right. Only an idiot can’t tell the difference between a crow and a lord,” Tormunds says again. “What are you?”

Jon takes a deep breath, then blows it out, slowly.

 _The North is yours,_ Renly wrote. _It’s always been yours._ He pushes away from the table and stands. Flatly, he says, “I’m the Lord of Winterfell, and I said I need a fucking minute to think.”

Jon turns and leaves the tent.

+

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! This will be my LONGEST WORK EVERRRRRR, and maybe my favorite thing I've written (so naturally I'm most nervous about it), so I hope you enjoyed it and are excited for Part One: Chapter 2, and Part Two as well!!
> 
> Part One: Chapter Two will be up next weekend!
> 
> I'm seabsneckbeard on twitter and tumblr! Come say hello!


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